


The Apple Pie Life

by grey2510, ThayerKerbasy



Series: Pour Some Sugar on Dean (In the Name of Love) [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (trust us it'll make sense), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonverse Cafe Not-AU, Crowley lives, F/M, Food Porn, M/M, Minor Claire Novak/Kaia Nieves, Minor Mary Winchester/AU Bobby Singer, Multi, POV Alternating, Vaguely post-s13, Wayward Crew, because Thayer knows how to bake things and Grey lives vicariously through that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-06 03:40:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16380680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/pseuds/grey2510, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThayerKerbasy/pseuds/ThayerKerbasy
Summary: It's not the end of the world: Michael's dead, Team Free Will is alive and kickin'... Except kickin' it on hunts and killing baddies just isn't what Dean wants anymore. He wants the apple pie life, literally. So that's what he sets out to do.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a post (linked in the end-notes, but it's spoilery, fair warning) from the excellent [Writing Prompts blog](https://writing-prompt-s.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.
> 
> \---  
> Oh hey, peeps -- It's us again, here to bring you the usual ridiculousness born in the chatty bubbles that then spiraled into a legit fic. If you've been following [our promos on Tumblr](https://grey2510.tumblr.com/tagged/project-beans-promos), you know that The Apple Pie Life is CLEARLY the inferior title we've settled on and that the genius of SOME people in this writing duo has sadly been overlooked. But, luckily, I can be magnanimous and can set aside creative differences to focus on the quality product here before you. You're welcome. Bon apetit.  
> -Grey
> 
> Hi everyone. Just dropping in to let you all to know that I saved you from some atrocious puns when I won the title war. Sure, Grey did twice the work in this fic, writing both the Dean and Cas sections while I wrote Crowley, and I'll be the first to acknowledge that she definitely deserves top billing on this, but I had to draw the line when it came to the title. What we ended up with is definitely the best of the best and I hope you enjoy it.  
> -Thayer
> 
> 1) Those are great puns, dunno wtf you're talking about  
> B) Half of them are yours, Thayer. Don't even try to pretend  
> -Grey

 

 

 

If nothing else, Dean Winchester was decisive. Stubborn, some might say, but they weren't him and he was the one telling the story, dammit. And when Dean Winchester—after saving the world for the bagillionth time even though it still just kept getting more and more fucked up and the job became more and more thankless—decided, _screw it, I'm opening a damn coffee shop_ , that's exactly what he did.

"You're opening _a coffee shop_?" Sam sputtered. "What?!"

"You got it. Maybe one of you will finally learn how to make a decent cup of joe."

Cas frowned. "You said you liked when I made you coffee."

Dean considered this. "Alright, Cas, you get a pass. You ain't bad. But there's always room for improvement, right?"

"I suppose." Cas seemed less than convinced but he didn't argue the point (and Dean knew him well enough to know that wasn't the same as Cas giving in, but he was gonna take the win while he could).

Sam still looked like the human equivalent of an Error 404 message. "Hold on—so you're just gonna quit hunting and be a barista?"

"Small business owner, fuck you very much. C'mon, Sammy, that's like the American Dream."

"Since when have—"

Dean waved him off, jangling the keys to the shop in front of him. "Whatever, time's a-wastin'. We gotta get this place up 'n runnin' before it opens next week."

" _Next week?_ "

Dean sighed. Maybe he should consider hiring better employees. Or maybe he should start with telling Sam and Cas they were employees. Well, Cas at least. Sam shouldn't be let anywhere near foodservice.

 

The place was actually in pretty good condition after the previous owners had given up, claiming (according to the Lebanon grapevine) that just because their parents and grandparents and who knows how many generations before that had been stuck in the podunk town, they weren't going to do the same. Some of the appliances had needed updating and the walls had needed a fresh coat of paint (1950s lead-filled pink wasn't exactly Dean's style, so he went with a tasteful beige with green accents; he'd wanted to do red but Cas had convinced him that green was more soothing and would entice people to stay), but overall it wasn't bad.

There was just one thing missing, Dean thought as he looked at the blank space above the door. They could've stuck with the café's original name—Main Street Coffee—but that was boring and Dean wanted a more personal touch.

"Café Americano," Sam suggested as they went back inside.

Dean made a face. "Lame. Might as well just name it Espresso or Mocha Frappuccino or Cream Two Sugars. Those are menu items, Sam. It's like you're not even trying."

Sam rolled his eyes and walked over to a table by the windows. "Fine. You guys hash it out. I'm gonna start getting all your paperwork going." He opened up his laptop. "Huh. Your wifi is really good here. You already got the cable guys in?"

Dean blinked. "No, they don't come till Wednesday."

Before he could puzzle over how it was that Sam always seemed to have wifi wherever he went—probably why his hair was so big: it was full of signals—Cas spoke up, looking around the room, completely oblivious to the beige paint streak just below his ear, which Dean might have found more than a little distracting.

"HumaniTea, but T-E-A at the end."

" _HumaniTea?_ " Dean scoffed, jerking his attention back from definitely not staring at Cas. "What—"

Cas shrugged. "I'm quite fond of humanity, even when it's incredibly infuriating. And I assume we'll be serving tea as well as coffee."

Sam snorted from his laptop but said nothing. Dean narrowed his eyes at his brother anyway, then turned on Cas. "No, nuh uh. HumaniTea sounds like some humanitarian do-gooder bullshit. Plus, this ain't some organic, vegan bakery. I been to Hell—I ain't bringing it here."

"There's nothing wrong with vegan or organic options."

"Don't care, Cas. This is a good ol' fashioned American café. No frou-frou crap." Dean crossed his arms as he thought. The mention of Hell did give him an idea, though. He snapped his fingers. "Got it: Café to Heaven."

"Really, Dean?" Sam finally looked up from his screen. "A bad Zepp pun?"

"Ok, first, there's no such thing as a bad Zepp pun, and B, screw you, it's a great name." He waved a hand in Sam's general direction. "Alright, hop to it—get that paperwork goin'. We got a café to open."

"Sure thing, boss."

Dean wondered if he should be worried about Sam's easy acceptance of the order. But, he had other things to worry about—like how many flavors of pie he could make and get on the menu.

 

He was just mounting a giant chalkboard on the wall behind the counter when Sam walked in with a manila folder.

"Alright, got everything filed," Sam said, slapping the folder on the counter as Dean climbed down the ladder. "Congratulations, you're a legal business owner. Well, besides the fact that you're officially named Dean Singer, seeing as we're all dead several times over."

"Singer?"

Sam grimaced and shrugged. "Figured we'd had too many run-ins with the Campbells and that Bobby wouldn't have minded."

The thought of Bobby's beard twitching up gruffly if he could have heard that little revelation made Dean grin as he flipped open the folder. "You did good, Samm—wait, what the _fuck?_ "

At the top of every page, the business was listed as Dean's Beans, not Café to Heaven. If looks could kill, Sam woulda been dead several more times over. But the bastard just smiled the biggest shit-eating grin to ever eat shit.

"What? You said you wanted the place to have a personal touch. What could be more personal than naming the shop after yourself?"

"Dean's Beans?! That's what with you came up with? What the ever-loving _shit_?"

Cas emerged from the back kitchen. "Dean? Sam? What's wrong?"

Apoplectic, Dean shoved the folder at Cas so he could see the travesty. Cas, however, just glanced at the pages and said, "Oh good. We're official. There were no issues with the Health Department?"

"Cas, what the hell? Did you _see_ what Sam did?"

Cas nodded. "I didn't realize we'd decided on a new name. It's catchy. I hear rhyming is a good marketing strategy."

"That's— You know what— Fuck you both." Dean stormed off, wishing this were a bar because this was at least a three-whiskey problem.

By the next day, Dean had recovered enough from this ultimate betrayal and had decided to make the best of it. ...And because he'd talked with _Debra_ down at City Hall and realized just how much of a clusterfuck of red-tape it was going to be to change the name now that everything was in the system. (He was pretty sure that 90% of the clusterfuck had everything to do with how long it took Debra to type anything with those damn claws she called fake nails.)

Whatever. So the paperwork said ( _shudder_ ) Dean's Beans. That was behind the scenes. No one had to know that.

Which was why Dean was currently painting the blank space above the door outside just DEAN'S. It didn't look half-bad—he'd gotten a stencil and everything—and now he was just doing touch-up work on the letters. And if it wasn't picture-perfect, so what? This wasn't friggin' Starbucks.

He was probably leaning back on the ladder a little further than he should to get some perspective, and so he nearly came toppling down when he heard an all-too familiar voice from the ground behind him.

"Hello, Squirrel. Miss me?"

 

 

🍪 ☕ 🥧

 

 

It was probably the ladder that saved him. Had Dean been at ground level, all sorts of emotional responses would have been possible, but the ladder seemed to force him to process while climbing down. As it was, his feet hit the sidewalk and he immediately began advancing on Crowley, an intense and determined glint in his eyes.

While prepared to stand his ground and get punched if that’s what Dean needed, Crowley very much hoped to avoid that outcome, so he did what he did best. "It was Amara. I was all set to stay dead. I’d done my part for Winchesters and country and I was prepared to embrace the eternal nothing, but she refused to let me sleep. Said she wanted to give me another chance to learn what she’d learned or some such."

"Shut up," replied Dean as he closed the last step between them and hugged Crowley.

Crowley was glad to oblige, since his brain refused to make words. Hugs were always awkward. He never knew what to do with his hands and the feelings were…difficult.

Finally, Dean gave him a pat on the back and released him. "From now on, you run all your so-called brilliant plans by me first, since you clearly can’t be trusted to not get dead on your own."

"Actually," replied Crowley, "that’s why I’m here. Hell doesn’t want me and I don’t want anything to do with Hell. The whole baker’s dozen of them can go bugger themselves for all I care, but that leaves me rather at loose ends, and since we all know that’s a terrible idea for everyone, I came to offer my services."

"You came to what now?"

"You’re opening a café. I happen to have the skills you need."

"Like what? Since when are you a fuckin’ barista?"

"You bloody— Not a barista, a baker, though I do make a mean cup of tea."

"You. A baker. Since when?"

Crowley sighed. "It’s a hobby, alright? One in which I’ve had several hundred years to dabble. You want to run a café, great, sign me up. I’ll keep you more than adequately supplied with cookies, muffins, scones, and whatever else your menu requires."

Dean considered in that frowny way of his, which should have left deeper lines than it did, probably due to being an archangel vessel or receiving angelic healing every time he stubbed his toe or something. "Fine. But I’m makin’ the pies."

"I wouldn’t have it any other way, darling. Now, I believe there are two more who need convincing, and only one of us is at all good at soothing the Moose, so," Indicating the door with a suitably extravagant sweep of the hand, Crowley continued, "after you."

 

Sam proved to be more easily swayed than anticipated, though his initial reaction was exactly what Crowley had expected. ("Really Moose? And precisely what do you think salt and holy water will prove?") Once Castiel had vouched for Crowley’s veracity, the big galoot almost immediately gave in, saying, "Alright Dean, it’s your café. If you want the former King of Hell baking cookies, that’s up to you. You should probably see if he can actually bake though."

That’s how Crowley wound up offering to bake a batch of blueberry muffins whilst his would-be employers watched. Of course, they didn’t have any ingredients yet, so he teleported out to procure what was needed from the local shop. He returned to find all three of them glaring at him accusatorially.

"If you’re not careful, your faces will freeze like that."

"Why’d you leave?" asked Castiel.

Crowley held up his full grocery bags. "In case you haven’t noticed, Mother Hubbard’s got nothing in her cupboards. Rather difficult to demonstrate my skills without the requisite ingredients."

The three of them as one visibly relaxed and Dean ran a hand through his hair. "Sorry man, we’re all still getting used to the idea of you being back and then you up and disappeared on us. This is a zero stress zone, got it? No freakin’ us out."

"Within these four walls, I am a powerless mortal. Message received. Now, will you three Old Navy models quit smoldering around and make some space so I can work?"

He unpacked his ingredients and laid out his _mise en place_ while the trio watched, Dean interested, Cas inscrutable, and Sam with half his attention on his phone. Then, when everything was ready and the oven heating, he got to work.

It was actually quite soothing, once he got started. Crowley opted to forego the industrial stand mixer in favour of mixing by hand. There was something about the feeling of the individual components coming together to become something better with no help other than his own two hands. Creaming butter and sugar transformed two simple ingredients into something light and fluffy. Adding eggs made it smoother and adding a mixture of flour, salt, and baking powder alternated with buttermilk created muffin batter.

All that remained were the blueberries. Rather than add them all in, Crowley separated out about a quarter of the berries into a separate bowl and crushed them with a fork.

Dean muttered confusion during the berry separation and graduated to an outburst when he saw the berries get crushed. "Woah woah woah, why are you breakin’ perfect berries?"

"Patience, Squirrel," replied Crowley. Adding the crushed berries to the batter, Crowley then coated his remaining blueberries with a bit of flour before adding those as well. He stirred carefully so as not to break the intact berries, then portioned the completed batter into muffin pans with paper liners — not as good as greasing them with butter so the muffins came out crisp and buttery, but an unfortunate necessity.

Finally, he threw together butter, oats, and brown sugar to make a crumble for the tops. He slid the pans into the oven with a sense of satisfaction, then set the ancient but still functional egg timer and turned his attention to cleaning up his workstation, only to find Dean already filling the dishwasher with the dirty dishes.

"If we’re all gonna work together, we gotta be a team, right?" Dean started the machine running while Castiel gathered up ingredients to put away. "Just don’t get used to this, though. Most of the time, whoever ain’t bakin’ll be out front servin’ customers."

"Noted. Henceforth, provided my skills are up to snuff, I shall refrain from coming to work in Armani. Now, as we have roughly a half hour to kill, might one of you fill me in on what I’ve missed while dead?"

 

Even though they were terrible about glossing over details, a half hour wasn’t nearly enough time to sum up more than a year. Granted, Crowley kept interrupting to ask what Assmodeus had done to Hell, and his outburst when hearing of Lucifer’s return was undignified to say the least. It was a relief when the timer buzzed, distracting everyone.

Donning the unnecessary oven mitts, Crowley pulled perfectly browned muffins from the oven. He then ditched the mitts and broke open a muffin to reveal the beautiful purple marbling from the broken blueberries. The smell wafted through the kitchen and Dean wasted no time in proclaiming, "That one’s mine. The one in the corner with the most sugar on top."

"Well actually—" Cas began, but was cut off by upbeat instrumental music coming from the corner where Sam stood with his phone.

Over the theme song from _The Great British Bake Off_ , Sam said, "You’re hired."

 

 

🍩 🍵 🍰

 

 

If there was one thing that Castiel could always count on—and considering the fact he'd been alive since before Time itself, he felt that list really should be longer—it was that Dean would always find a way to surprise him. True, Dean was also incredibly predictable in more ways than one (harming Sam or Baby would result in immediate injury/death to the perpetrator; pie was the nectar of the gods and Led Zeppelin was practically a celestial choir (Cas had thus far been unable to disabuse Dean of these "facts"); he would never wait more than ten seconds before charging into a situation that Cas said he could handle...), but Castiel could admit that opening a café was not something he could have ever guessed was in Dean's—or, by extension, his—future.

Employing Crowley would also fall under that category.

When Dean had said he didn't want to make the bakery a vegan establishment because he wasn't interested in bringing Hell to their corner of Kansas, to paraphrase, Castiel should have known that Hell would arrive anyway.

Castiel was determined to help Dean make the café a success. If anyone deserved a retirement into civilian life, it was the Winchesters. He wasn't surprised that Sam still seemed content to keep ties with hunters and act as a resource, even if he wasn't going into the field himself, and he definitely did not begrudge Dean's desire to walk away entirely. If he could have convinced Dean to do so years ago (and if the universe had let them), guilt-free, he would have.

Crowley, however, was part of that life they were trying to leave behind.

Granted, so was he, but Castiel hoped that he'd be able to prove his worth to Dean and he would _not_ let Crowley ruin that for him.

He watched closely when Crowley expertly made a batch of blueberry muffins and felt a wholly unwelcome twinge of jealousy that, to him, they just tasted like well-arranged molecules while Dean moaned around his overlarge bite of baked good.

"Oh, tha's fuggin' awesome." Dean grinned as he chewed and swallowed. There were crumbs at the corner of his mouth that Castiel felt an urge to brush away, but he knew that would be a gross invasion of personal space.

Sam cleared his throat, making Castiel blink and tear his eyes away from Dean's little display. Crowley gave him a small smirk before turning to begin clearing up his workspace.

(Castiel kicked himself mentally for referring to it as Crowley's. Just because Sam said he was hired…)

"I'll go set up the tea and coffee stations," he said, turning on his heel to leave the kitchen. Unfortunately, he wasn't fast enough to miss Dean's facing falling from his post-muffin rapture.

 

It was near closing on a Sunday (they were only open until 2 p.m. on that day of the week because, as Dean reasoned, "it's the damn weekend and if someone wants a scone that bad, they can drive to fucking Starbucks. I'm going home, putting on my bathrobe, and drinkin' a beer."). Castiel was wiping down the espresso machine while Dean was chatting with a customer. From the kitchen came the sounds of Crowley cleaning equipment and inventorying ingredients, as well as the faint strains of music from the small radio Dean had found in the storeroom and which he had promptly set to the local classic rock station.

Finally the customer left, leaving them alone in the café. Dean hopped up on a counter a few feet from Cas, his boots knocking against the cabinets beneath.

"You shouldn't sit there. According to the Health Department—"

"Oh, c'mon, Cas. Live a little. We're closing in five and we're gonna scrub down the place anyway."

Castiel pursed his lips but didn't respond, though he was very aware of Dean's eyes on him.

"Cas, what's up?" Dean asked, quieter than he had been before.

"Nothing."

"Uh huh."

But he didn't press the matter—Castiel was sure it would come up later regardless of any attempts at deflection now—and instead they sat or worked quietly for a few minutes, each in their own thoughts. He had just finished the espresso machine and was about to wipe down as much as the counter as was not currently occupied when Dean's feet stilled from their soft drumming. He put down the cloth he'd been cleaning with and finally looked up.

"Dean?"

Rubbing the back of his neck, Dean shrugged, but the casual motion didn't reach the deep line in his forehead. "You think this is gonna work? I mean, am I—are we crazy?"

Cas looked around the café. The three framed pictures Dean had picked up at a garage sale of classic cars on one wall. The landscape painting Sam had chosen. The chipped yellow and blue mugs Cas had found to store sugar packets and wooden stirrers. The subtle warding and sigils that had been worked into window sills and wainscotting. It was still a work in progress, but already, Cas felt at home here.

"No crazier than usual."

Dean snorted. "Not exactly a high bar."

Before Cas could say anything else, the radio in the kitchen changed and the all-too familiar notes of "You're Still the One" drifted into the front of the café. He groaned. Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Shania Twain?"

"Apparently she's a Canadian national treasure," Castiel muttered, thinking of the many hours he spent listening to Crowley sing along to her while they were searching for Lucifer.

Dean laughed in disbelief. "Do I want to know?"

"No, you definitely do not." He picked up the cloth again but didn't start cleaning right away. "Dean," he said, choosing his words carefully, "do you think he means it?"

Dean frowned. "What, that he hates Hell and isn't going back?"

Not exactly, but Castiel knew Crowley could probably hear them and so he was reluctant to say much more. "...Yes."

"Yeah. Yeah, I do." Dean hopped off the counter and put a hand on Cas' shoulder. "Trust me. This is gonna be a good thing."

One more predictable thing about Dean: his smile was always very convincing. Looking around the café again, and then going back to cleaning, Castiel found himself really believing this could work.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want more of Cas and Crowley's Shania Twainerific adventures, check out Thayer's fic [Always Stuck in Second Gear](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11146536/chapters/24868941)!


	2. Chapter 2

They were just shy of a month of operations and Dean had just finished serving Mr. Jankowski his usual—black coffee and a slice of pecan pie (which Dean was rather damn proud of, even if the first two attempts before they'd opened their doors had been syrupy messes)—and Mrs. Jankowski her usual—English breakfast tea (milk, one sugar) and one of Crowley's orange cranberry muffins—and heard once again from Mrs. Jankowski that he seemed like such a nice boy and that she was sure he would just _love_ her single daughter and wasn't it a shame Melissa lived so far away in Oklahoma, when trouble walked in.

Trouble came with an arched eyebrow, a biker jacket, curly blond hair, and a snarky quip. 

"So, Dean, you gonna grow out a hipster beard and 'stache now? You already got the flannel."

"Hello to you, too, Claire." Dean wiped his hands on a towel that he then slung over a shoulder. "What can I get ya? On the house." He gestured up at their menu with the daily specials of drinks and pastries written out beautifully in colorful chalk—apparently, Cas had been hiding his skills as a chalkboard master all these years. 

Claire blinked. "For real? Jody told me you'd retired but I thought you were all like deep undercover or something."

"Nope. Living the good life." While she looked around the room in shock, Dean started putting together an iced French vanilla coffee, remembering her order from their post-almost-permanently-turned-into-a-werewolf breakfast a couple years ago. "Here."

"Um, thanks," she said, but smiled when she took a sip. She peered at the pastry cabinet. "What's good?"

Before he could answer, the 10 am bickering began, right on schedule. Cas and Crowley emerged from the kitchen, Cas' hair sticking up on end and Crowley somehow looking just as kingly in his black chef's coat and pants with a white apron as he did in his Armani suits.

"Those strawberries were intended for one of Dean's pies." There was a certain deadliness in Cas' tone that brought Dean instantly back to a thousand hunts and threats; he would _not_ want to be Crowley right now.

But Crowley seemed completely unperturbed by the heavenly wrath glaring at him. "And I told _you_ that if you'd put in the order for more blueberries _as I requested_ , I wouldn't have had to _completely_ upend the entire muffin menu to accommodate for your inadequacies!" 

"Fellas, fellas, calm down," Dean said, stepping between them while Claire looked on with wide eyes. "Cas, we still got those cherries?"

Cas ran his hand through his hair. "Yes, I believe so."

"Fine, so I'll make cherry pie. Crowley can have the strawberries."

" _Thank_ you." Crowley strutted back into the kitchen, and Cas and Dean looked at each other and rolled their eyes before Cas noticed who was standing on the other side of the counter.

"Claire?"

"Heya, Cas. Long time."

Despite the fact that a family had just walked in who was starting to look impatient, Dean didn't object at all to Cas going around the counter to awkwardly hug Claire. Once assured that all was well with those two, he stepped back to the register and started to take the family's order. By the time the kids and parents were happily enjoying their drinks and goodies, Claire and Cas were in deep conversation at the table Sam usually claimed (when he wasn't off archiving the Bunker or whatever nerdy thing he was up to that day). Satisfied that no one else was going to bug him for a few minutes, Dean made his way over to the table to join them. 

"So what brings you our way?" 

Claire put down her iced coffee, which was more than halfway gone. Dean noticed she'd also been provided with some sort of pastry—a scone, if the crumbs on the plate were anything to go by. "Ghouls in Nebraska. I'm meeting Kaia there in a few hours. She and Patience were doing dream-psychic stuff the last couple weeks."

"Oh yeah? How's she doing?" Dean swung a chair around and straddled it, arms resting on the back, but still within full view of the counter in case anyone came in. 

Claire colored faintly and nearly choked on her straw. "Um, she's good."

Cas frowned. "Is everything alright? What Kaia went through was traumatic, but—"

"No, no, she's, uh, normal." The faint blush became even more red and she avoided their eyes. "We'rekindadating."

Dean blinked, not sure he'd heard her right. "You're what now?"

"Dating?" Claire flicked her eyes between them.

"Oh," was Cas' reply, and Claire shrunk back into herself, mistaking Cas' remark as judgement or disapproval. 

Dean, however, grinned. "Yeah? Good for you two."

"Really?" Claire raised her head, her expression noticeably brighter than before.

Cas nodded. "I don't know her well but she seemed nice."

Claire let out a breath, then shrugged. "Yeah, she's cool. It's good, I guess."

Dean tried not to roll his eyes at the little show. Who was he to judge a little denial and deflection? He couldn't imagine Jody being anything but supportive, but it's never easy, and Claire had probably been terrified to know what an actual angel would think of the whole thing. 

"So, ghouls, huh?" Dean said, steering the conversation back to more comfortable territory. "Nasty fuckers. Make sure you aim for the head. And don't follow 'em down any tunnels if you can help it. Not unless you know what's on the other side."

Claire gave him a look. "I _know_."

"And you've got backup?" Cas asked.

"Kaia and I have hunted worse."

"You guys got this. You saved me 'n Sam's asses over in the Bad Place." Dean caught Cas' eye and saw the two sides warring within him. "Cas, I ain't gonna stop ya if you want to go, but I gotta stay here. Got a business to run. 'Sides, don't want Crowley to burn the place down while I'm gone."

"You know I can hear you, you miserable ingrate," Crowley called from the kitchen with an aggressive clang of a pan on the table (Dean would assume).

"Do you need me to come?" Cas asked.

Claire lifted a shoulder as she glanced around the place, her eyes settling on something behind Dean, likely the picture he'd made them all take outside the store the day they'd opened. "No, we've got it," she answered, giving them a small smile. "I'll call you if it goes sideways."

"Sam's usually running the phone lines these days. And hey, swing by next time you're in town. Hunters drink free," Dean added, then thought about it. "Well, the ones we like, anyway."

"Oh good. So glad I rank a free coffee."

Dean stood and gave her a warning look. "Don't abuse it."

After that it was hugs and more hunting advice and eyerolls (and Dean was fairly certain that Crowley'd somehow managed to slip a half dozen assorted baked goods into her car by using the teleporting powers he'd promised he wouldn't while working here), and Claire was on her way to kill some ghouls with her girlfriend. So romantic.

"That was a close one," Dean said, leaning back against the counter by the espresso machine. "Man, I do _not_ miss that shit. Ghouls—gross."

Cas let out a _hmm_ of agreement. "Think she'll be alright?"

"Absolutely. Kid's badass. I wouldn't fuck with her."

"That's probably wise."

The bell at the door tinkled and Sam loped in, laptop bag slung over a shoulder. "Hey," he greeted them before seeing their expressions. "What'd I miss?"

"Claire was here," Dean said. "She's off to kill ghouls."

"Dammit, I missed her?"

"See? This is what you get for spending all your time reading, Sammy. No good ever comes of it."

Crowley took the opportunity to chime in from the other room, "I thought you only had those magazines for the articles…"

"Can it, asshole!" Dean shot back, realizing belatedly that there were still customers in the joint (but luckily the Jankowskis usually both forgot their hearing aids, so he was probably fine).

"Love you, too, darling."

Dean rubbed a hand over his face while Sam smirked and Cas looked torn between jumping on the snark bandwagon and being confused about Dean's professed hatred of reading. It was both endearing and almost enough to make him want to take off and join Claire in traipsing through a graveyard.

Almost.

 

 

🍪 ☕ 🥧

 

 

At first, Crowley did everything he could to avoid rocking the boat. The whole thing seemed too good to be true, so if keeping his mouth shut bought him a spot on the team, he’d manage. He’d finally made up his mind and chosen a side and he wouldn’t let anything jeopardize his new position.

That lasted two days.

While Dean’s job consisted of baking pies and serving customers, Sam’s only job seemed to involve taking up the corner table and drinking their coffee. (Maybe also keeping the books, but for once, Crowley was determined to steer clear of the administrative end of things.) Castiel, though, was generally a busy little bee. During opening hours, he made tea and coffee, waited on customers, and kept the café sparkling clean, but in the early morning while Dean and Crowley baked, he had nothing to do. As it turned out, there was nothing worse than an angel with nothing to do.

It was the most infuriating thing, trying to bake with a silent observer hovering in the background. Castiel alternated between Dean and Crowley, watching intently, which was annoying enough, but he always managed to get in Crowley’s way. He never tripped up Dean — apparently they’d gotten used to being joined at the hip over the past decade — only Crowley.

If Dean noticed anything was amiss, he never said a word. He stayed on his side of the kitchen, baked his pies, and then left to get the shop in order for the morning.

It would have been manageable if it only happened for that brief period in the early mornings, but no. After the morning rush, when business slowed down a bit, Castiel left Dean to manage the till while he ran the dishes through the dishwasher and restocked the coffee and tea stations from the supplies in the storeroom. It meant Castiel was constantly back and forth through the kitchen, and somehow in Crowley’s way nearly every single time.

Crowley held his tongue as long as he could (which was apparently two days) before he snapped. "Oi! Watch where you’re going, you overgrown pigeon!"

Without even looking at Crowley, Castiel replied on his way to the front, " _You_ watch out."

He said it as if Crowley had been the one getting in his way rather than vice versa, but Crowley had been doing his best to keep to himself, attempting to fly under the radar if at all possible, which clearly it wasn’t. If anything, it seemed like Castiel was legitimately _trying_ to cause trouble. 

Crowley was not about to lose his spot as the fourth Musketeer without a fight, so for the rest of the morning he did exactly what Castiel had suggested. Whenever he heard the angel hurrying in his direction, he stopped whatever he was doing and made absolutely certain to get out of the way. It should have solved everything, but after the first few times, Castiel’s face got smitier and smitier.

Finally, after Crowley had dodged out of the way at least half a dozen times in ten minutes, Castiel said, "I thought you were supposed to be helping, not standing around like some useless demon lackey."

"Me?! I’ve been getting out of your way, since you can’t be bothered to look where you’re going."

"I’m only taking the most efficient path so I can get this done and get back to helping Dean. Are you incapable of sharing space with someone if you can’t teleport?"

Oh, that was low. "Listen here, Catstiel, you’ve been underfoot practically since I got here. Is it me you’ve got a problem with, or are you truly that clumsy?"

It should have aggravated him to no end, and anyone who didn’t know Castiel might have assumed it had, but Crowley had gotten to know Castiel’s understated microexpressions over the years, and if he was reading them correctly, the bloody bastard was enjoying himself.

Castiel took a step closer and opened his mouth to respond, but shut it again when Dean shouted from the front, "Will you toddlers shut up, or do I have to put you both in time out?"

Without another word, Castiel carried on about his tasks, with the only difference that he actually avoided bumping into Crowley for the rest of the day. The next morning he was right back at it again, though.

Crowley was no fool. He waited until it was just the two of them in the kitchen, and Castiel had his hands full of sugar and packets of coffee grinds, before flashing an impish smirk. "Missed you, too, buttercup. I thought you were at least a little more creative though. Trying the same technique twice? It’s beneath you."

"Just you wait," replied Castiel, the corners of his mouth curving upward ever so slightly, "I’m just getting started."

As Castiel left to restock the coffee station, Crowley smiled to himself. Even without the use of his powers, he wasn’t going to get bored anytime soon.

 

 

🍩 🍵 🍰

 

 

Cas didn't have particularly fond memories of his time in Rexford, but cleaning those slushie machines had at least prepared him for the tedium of cleaning the expensive coffee equipment here. Rexford had also been educational in regards to a variety of emotions, none of which he was interested in revisiting, and so he tried his best to block the sounds of Crowley and Dean talking and laughing about something or other in the kitchen. 

It was no wonder that it took Sam practically snapping his fingers in Cas' face for him to notice. 

"Cas, you ok?"

"Yes, of course, Sam. Sorry. I was just concentrating on this." He gestured vaguely to the machine before looking back at Sam, whose brows were slightly knit. "Did you want something?"

Sam shrugged. "No, was just checking in on you. Was afraid you were going to polish a hole right through the metal." He offered a weak smile and adjusted the laptop bag on his shoulder.

Another rumble of laughter came from the kitchen and Cas tried not to visibly sigh, but Sam caught his expression anyway.

"It's—" Cas started to say, but he was cut off by Dean.

"Hey, Cas, we get that order of shortening yet?" 

Cas' eyes found the ceiling as he called back, "It's in the storeroom."

"Oh, nice—"

"I'll get it." Cas glanced at Sam before heading in the direction of the storeroom, trying to puzzle out Sam's expression as he went.

Dean greeted him with a wide smile when he dropped off the giant can. "Thanks, dude." He chucked Cas on the shoulder, leaving a faint flour dusting on his sleeve. "Perks of having an angel around, right?"

Cas felt the familiar jolt of warmth go through him, even if the task was, to an angel, the equivalent of asking a human to carry a piece of paper. Even for a human, it wouldn't have been a terribly difficult, nor would it have taken Dean very long to clean up well enough to go grab what he needed without making a mess.

"Yes, yes, he's very impressive. Round of applause. Well done, Clark Kent. Metropolis has been saved." 

Years ago, Castiel had once overheard a mother tell her child that if the boy continued to make an unpleasant face, it would freeze like that. While that was obviously impossible for a human (without magic), perhaps there was something about demon physiology that had turned Crowley's visage into a perpetual smirk. Any warmth he'd felt drained away and so he returned to the front of the café. 

Sam was still there, leaning against the counter, which almost brought Cas up short, having expected him to return back to the Bunker. But the laptop bag was resting on the counter and Sam was wearing a thoughtful expression.

"You know you don't have hup-to every time Dean says something, right?" Sam asked without preamble.

Cas narrowed his eyes. "I was just being helpful. Dean's busy and I wasn't."

Sam nodded but didn't seem convinced. He looked about to say more but Dean appeared, clapping Cas on the shoulder and letting his hand rest there, with Crowley right behind him.

"Alright, we got everything wrapped up here? It's Friday—I say we hit a bar or something. Isn't that what normal people do after work?" Dean grinned around at the group. "Not too late, though; still gotta be up tomorrow…"

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Who _are_ you? What's next, you saying, 'Someone's got a case of the Mondays'?"

"Really?" Dean deadpanned, letting his hand fall from Cas' shoulder. "Me wanting to get a drink after work and a good night's sleep is what's weirding you out in all this?"

"Touché."

"Well, you boys enjoy your evening," Crowley said with an unusual amount of pleasantness. "I'll see you in the morning. Ta." He stepped outside and around the corner to the secluded spot Cas knew he had been using to teleport to wherever he went at night, so as not to break Dean's ban on using demonic powers in the café.

Dean's face fell ever so slightly, but he recovered and looked between Sam and Cas, nodding. "C'mon, you guys in?"

Sam shrugged and slid his laptop bag off the counter and back onto his shoulder. "Why not."

"Cas?"

While whatever beverage they put in front of him would taste roughly the same as any other, Cas had developed an appreciation of enjoying a beer with the brothers. It would be good to get out of the café and Bunker for a night.

"Of course, Dean." 

He smiled and was rewarded tenfold. 


	3. Chapter 3

"So the place is doing good?"

Dean had always struggled getting a read on his mother, but Mary's voice over the phone sounded relieved and hopeful, if not a little surprised. He couldn't exactly blame her on that front.

"Yeah, goin' smooth." Well, smooth enough, but she didn't need to know the workplace soap opera he was currently living in.

"That's good, Dean. I'm glad."

"You 'n Bobby 'n Jack need to swing by. Got a hunter special: kill two vampire nests, get one free pastry."

"Only one?" Mary teased.

"Damn could I go for a good Danish 'bout now," Dean heard Bobby mutter in the background; Mary must have had the phone on speaker.

"Hey, Bobby. We'll have one with your name on it next time you're in town."

"Somethin' to look forward to in my old age."

Dean snorted. Seemed that no matter the universe, Bobby Singer was a crusty, sardonic bastard. "How's Jack?"

"Here, you can ask him yourself," Mary answered. The phone shifted and a door opened in the background and then Jack's voice came over the line.

"Dean! Guess what?" And like an excited kid, Jack launched into a _very_ detailed story about their last hunt and Bobby teaching him to fight and all the things they'd been up to.

The conversation lasted all the way from the Bunker to the café, when Dean had to reluctantly hang up—after promises from Mary, Bobby, and Jack that they'd be through Kansas as soon as they could—and face whatever nonsense his two employees wanted to engage in that day.

Dean knew he could be a royal pain in the ass but he quickly realized he had nothing on Cas and Crowley. Somehow, in his attempt to escape the drama and bullshit of Heaven versus Hell, he'd managed to bring it right into his café. On the upside, this time, he got to be the boss, and so after listening to the two of them yap at each other about something he couldn't give two shits about for the thousandth time, he decided to pull rank.

While his relationships with both of them were nothing short of complicated, Dean opted to start with Cas first, since he wasn't sure he was quite ready to deal with Crowley's special brand of uncomfortable truths laced with more innuendo than was probably healthy.

Luckily, it was one of the days Sam was mooching off of Dean's hospitality, and so Dean voluntold his brother to take over the register for a few minutes.

"Don't fuck anything up," Dean warned him.

Sam rolled his eyes. "I can work a register, Dean. And I can pour a cup of coffee."

"Pour, yes. Make, no. Anyone orders anything fancier than a tea, you call Crowley."

"I have croissants _and_ cookies baking!" Crowley called.

"Figure it out! That's what I pay you for!"

"You don't pay me! _Hon_ estly…"

But Dean ignored whatever other grumbling came from the kitchen as he jerked his head in the direction of the back door and motioned Cas to follow him.

Cas looked more than a little worried, frowning and hunching his shoulders, as they stepped outside into the chilly air. "Dean? Is something wrong?"

Bending, Dean shoved an old brick between the door and the jamb to keep it from closing. "Yeah. What the hell's up with you and Boris?" He wiped his hands together to get the lingering brick dust and dirt off with only mild success.

Cas' face darkened. "I find him...frustrating."

"Uh huh. Wouldn't have anything to do with the two of you going out of your ways to annoy each other, would it?" The moment he said it, he regretted it, watching Cas' shoulders fall. "Cas, man, I get it, I ain't mad. Just...maybe try to keep it to shit that doesn't make work more difficult?"

"Of course, Dean. I-I can quit, if you prefer. I don't want to be in your way or to make your café less successful."

"Whoa, hey," he said, gripping Cas' bicep to stop him from turning away. "That's like the last thing in the world I want."

Cas met his eyes. "Even if I'm more of a hindrance than a help?"

"Absolutely." He grinned. "I haven't kicked Sam out yet and god knows what he's gonna do to the place before we get back in there. And you do help, Cas. I couldn't make this work without you."

"Right." Cas nodded and straightened his back. "I'll make sure I'm useful in the future."

"Cas, that's not— Look, I _like_ that you're useful. But I don't _need_ you to be useful. I just want you here, man. Ok?"

"Like Sam?"

A few years ago (hell, a couple months ago), Dean might've chucked Cas on the arm and said that was exactly what he meant, but that was before Dean Fucking Winchester decided to hang up his spurs and open a damn café. There was just some shit that was best left back on the road, with the bad motels and shitty hunts and too many Apocalypses to count.

Smiling, he said, "No, not like Sam at all."

It took a moment for Cas to catch on, but when he did, Dean was treated to one of the guy's rare smiles.

 

While the talk with Cas was enough to make things a little less tense in the kitchen, it did mean that the two of them had mostly stopped trying to interfere with each other and instead seemed to be competing for Employee of the Month. Any time Dean said even the _slightest_ nice thing about one of them, the favorite of the moment would preen like a freakin' peacock and strut around like Dean was handing out gold stars to kindergarteners.

"I dunno how you do it," Sam said after his second pumpkin spice latte (a drink Dean had only consented to offer because so many people asked for it, and he didn't give in until mid- _September_ when it was actually _fall_ because what the hell was wrong with people wanting it during the _summer_? Next thing you knew, they were gonna be asking for gingerbread and peppermint everything in fucking July).

Dean leaned back in his chair. It was his fifteen minute break, but he was stretching it to at least twenty minutes today; he'd been so busy lately, he and Sam rarely just got to sit and shoot the shit these days. Plus, perks of being the boss.

"Eh, it's not so bad. Rather have them competing over the job than fighting with each other. Dunno what their angle is: ain't like there's a promotion or something."

Sam blinked, deadpan.

"What?"

"You think they're competing because they have such strong work ethics?"

Dean shifted in his seat. "Maybe?"

"Dean, you're my brother, and I love ya, but sometimes you're an idiot."

"You're the idiot...idiot."

"Mhm." Sam rolled his eyes before glancing at his laptop screen.

"I keeping you from something?" Dean teased.

"Oh, no, just—" Sam frowned. "Do you ever miss it?"

He thought for a moment before answering. "Yes and no. I liked saving people—that was good. I like who we ended up with along the way." Of course that was punctuated by a metal crash and two raised voices from the kitchen. "Well, most of the time. But the rest of it? Fucking sucked, man."

Sam nodded. "Yeah. I feel like...after Lucifer and Michael...we kinda did our part, you know? Cleaned up our messes. I almost feel guilty for _not_ feeling guilty about walking away."

"I get it." Dean considered the laptop. "But, you're still in it a little. The new Bobby, now that the actual new Bobby is off with Mom."

He smiled a little awkwardly at the thought. He didn't _mind_ it—Mary was her own person and could do what she wanted, and Apocalypse-Bobby had come through for them more than a few times—but it was hard to wrap his head around the idea, especially with the memories of their Bobby.

Sam's lips twitched up at the corners in agreement. "Yeah, that's true." He looked around the café. "This is good, Dean."

"Yeah, it really is."

 

Not only had Cas been hiding chalkboard art skills, he'd apparently been hiding some serious barista prowess—his latte art was getting better and better (Dean was hoping he'd move past flowers and leaves and shit and maybe see if he could get some wards in there, on the off chance some demon or whatever walked in) and he had a knack for getting the proportions and temperatures _just_ right for whatever caffeinated concoction he was working on.

He was also getting pretty good at helping customers figure out what they wanted from their ever-expanding menu, a fact on which Dean commented one day, much to the mutterings and annoyance of Crowley, who had been restocking the case with a fresh batch of raspberry turnovers.

Leaving Cas to man the register, Dean followed Crowley back into the kitchen. "Alright, lay it on me," he said, clapping his hands together once before opening them, palm up, and wiggling his fingers in a 'gimme' gesture.

Crowley put the empty tray down on a counter, arching an eyebrow. "Now? We're still on the clock—fairly certain that's at least one Health Department violation, though I'm sure that would be _lowballing_ it."

Dean grimaced. "Really, dude?"

"This place is called Dean's Beans. I only assumed the beans would be a key part of the business model." Crowley smirked—or maybe that was just how he always smiled.

He bristled. "How do you know that?" That was supposed to be a _secret_ : all of the signs just said DEAN'S on them, no mention of beans anywhere.

Smirking even more, Crowley reached down into a cardboard box on the floor by the island and pulled out a bag of stacked paper cups, all with the logo DEAN'S BEANS stamped on them.

"Sonofabitch." He was gonna kill Sam, and that was the _last_ time he ever asked Sam to help Cas with ordering inventory. "Are those the only cups we got?"

"Besides what's currently out front? I believe so." Crowley replaced the bag, then straightened, crossing his arms. "Now, what is it you wanted to discuss? I do have a kitchen to run."

Dean rolled his eyes, then went and grabbed his own apron and the ingredients to make apple pie filling (he'd already made the dough for the crust that morning and stuck it in the fridge to chill). As Dean began peeling apples, Crowley began slicing the finished ones.

"You know there are more efficient ways of doing this," Crowley commented after the third apple dropped into the bowl.

"Thought you liked doing things _by hand_." Two could play this game.

Crowley snorted. "But toys are always so much fun."

"Hey, we got that new blender," Dean pouted in defense, pointedly skipping right past the thought of other toys because he was a professional and this was his workplace, dammit.

"Yes, because the other one had been built to survive World War II _literally_."

"Point." They worked in silence for a few minutes until Dean tried again. "Crowley, why are you here?"

Crowley put his knife and half-sliced apple down. "Of course. Don't know why I'm surprised: doesn't matter what you or Jolly Green or Halo have done to utterly cock up the world, you always get a pass. And here I am, having gone to the mat for you—"

Why did he always suck at this? "No, I meant like _here_ with _us_. I get it: you hate Hell, you're not up to your old tricks. And I believe you, I do. But it ain't like you and Sam have ever trusted each other, and you and Cas are always going at each other—"

" _He_ started it—"

Dean held up a hand in surrender, even though it was still holding a paring knife. "Yeah, I get it. I talked to him. Don't get your panties in a twist, and consider this me talking to you about it, too." He set down the knife and rubbed the back of his neck. "It's just...I mean, you and me, I don't even know..."

Crowley's expression both softened and closed off all at once. "Ah yes. Well, we had our fun once upon a time, didn't we? What's by is by?"

And because it was Crowley, there was an uncomfortable little emphasis on that last phrase, but Dean wasn't gonna feed the troll. He sighed. "Look, there's a lot of shit I wanna leave behind. And that summer...it wasn't good, even you can admit it."

Crowley smiled wryly. "The karaoke certainly could have used some improvement."

"Hey, I was a karaoke _god_." Dean returned the half-smile. "I guess I just wanna know, after all that, why you're here. You were the damn _king_ and now I got you makin' fucking scones and shit with people you can barely stand."

"If it's any comfort, you, Moose, and Feathers can never be as inept and disappointing as my erstwhile demon minions. It's a low bar, but it's something, I suppose."

"Crowley."

Picking up the apple and knife again, Crowley said, "At the risk of sounding like the utter morons who stubbornly persist in assuming Sam is the only Winchester with any brains at all, you can truly be an idiot."

But there was a certain fondness in Crowley's words that made Dean smile to himself and resume peeling the forgotten apple in front of him. "So I've been told."

He couldn't decide if he was embarrassed or pleased by the position he found himself in, between Crowley and Cas. As long as this didn't turn into high school bullshit, he might actually enjoy it.

Who said retirement was gonna be dull?

And of course, because when it rains it pours, Cas' voice came through the door from the front of the café a moment later. "Dean? We have company."

Crowley and Dean exchanged a glance, both recognizing the urgency in Cas' tone, then hurried out of the kitchen.

"Cas, what's—" Dean skidded to a stop as he saw their newest customer.

Rowena lowered her sunglasses down her nose and gave them a Cheshire cat grin. "Hello, dears. Thought I'd pop in for a cup of tea."

 

🍪 ☕ 🥧

 

 

Crowley’s first thought was that the café was all an elaborate dream taking place in his head while he slept in the Empty. (Amara had explained all about his not-so-final rest while explaining a few other things to his newly-resurrected self.) His mother was supposedly dead, murdered by Lucifer, and wasn’t that telling when he still wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

A glance over at Dean’s expression told Crowley everything he needed to know. Dean wasn’t surprised to see Rowena — no, that look was more along the lines of resigned amusement. He knew and hadn’t said a word.

Feeling something akin to betrayal and wanting nothing more than to accuse Dean of keeping the knowledge from him, Crowley stifled his outrage. In light of their conversation in the kitchen, he was even less inclined to cock up his position. Which, of course, meant he couldn’t even blame Castiel either.

It left him with only one outlet. Careful to compose his expression and moderate his tone — too many lessons as a child on the subject of vulnerability lurked in the wings — he plastered on a venom-laced smile. "Mother. Hell didn’t want you and Heaven’s afraid you’ll take over?"

For her part, his mother appeared to be silently sorting through her own cascade of emotions. Seemed to, of course, because she’d been a master manipulator since before he was born. Her eyes widened, her jaw dropped, and she clutched her sunglasses to her chest in a display worthy of a southern belle. "Fergus?"

But then her lower lip gave a little quiver and her eyes filled with tears that somehow seemed genuine and he remembered she wasn’t the only one who was supposed to have been dead. Heaving a sigh, Crowley shooed Dean back to the kitchen. "Go on, finish your pies. Keep an ear on the oven for me, would you? I’ve got mini strudel in."

Eyes darting from Crowley to Rowena and back again, Dean gave him a look which clearly said, _no making a scene in front of the Muggles,_ but what he said was, "Yeah, go ahead, I got ‘em."

With Dean in the kitchen, there was only Castiel and that young woman glued to her laptop who fancied herself a writer, and while there was nothing to be done about Superman’s hearing, he could be distracted. "How long has that tea been steeping? Never mind, we’ll have a fresh pot of chai and a couple scones over at the corner table, since Moose isn’t here Bogarting it for once."

He was so easily provoked, but evidently Dean really had spoken with him about it, because Castiel simmered silently, his smiting glare directed at the canister of tea leaves instead. Unfortunately that only served to remind Crowley that Dean’s words had been meant for both of them.

Firmly quashing the snarky remark on the tip of his tongue, Crowley reevaluated. "On second thought, I’m sure whatever tea you have at the ready will be fine."

Only somewhat mollified, Castiel huffed and replied, "Take your scones and I’ll bring you your tea."

Crowley wasted no time in snatching up two cinnamon scones from the display case, placing each on its own plate and carrying them to the corner table, trusting that his mother would follow. When he set the plates down on the table and claimed the seat against the wall, he caught her dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

Clearing his throat, he caught her eye, startling her. Almost immediately, she composed herself and snapped her compact mirror shut, slipping both mirror and tissue back into the handbag she carried. She then made a show of looking around the café before taking the seat opposite him. "This whole thing is rather…quaint. Not at all your usual scene, is it?"

He sighed. "Why are you here, Mother?" Reminded once again of the conversation he’d just had with Dean, he hastened to clarify. "Last I knew — and granted, that was over a year ago — you weren’t exactly the type to drop by unless you wanted something."

"I’m a changed person!" Rowena protested. "I’ve been doing my bit to make the world a brighter place, lending a hand where I can. Well, I heard the news about the boys here from the feisty lasses out in Sioux Falls and I simply had to come and see for myself. Never thought I’d see the day the legendary Winchesters took themselves off the board."

"Yes, well, you’ve seen it now, so you can be on your way," replied Crowley.

"Oh, but I never expected to find you here, now did I, my wee boy?" Crowley pushed his chair back and was about to get up, but she dropped the briefly too-sweet tone. "She told me you were gone forever, the Lady Death. She said there was no bringing you back, no matter what I said or did or how much power I blasted her with."

"You attacked Death? For me. I thought you hated me."

"Aye, well, turns out you don’t know how much you’ll miss someone till they’re gone." Reaching out an elegantly manicured hand, she stopped just short of touching his arm, letting her hand fall back to her side. "I wanted to say I’m sorry. I was a terrible mother and you deserved better. I cannae right the wrongs I’ve done you, but I’d like to try. You don’t even have to like me, but let me be in your life, Ferg— Crowley."

Uncertain how to respond, Crowley was spared the need when Castiel brought two cups of tea and a teapot. Dressed in his "work clothes" — which were the same as his usual clothes minus the trench coat and suit jacket but with the addition of an apron — he looked incredibly self-conscious, setting the tea on the table with a muttered, "If you want anything in your tea, Crowley can get it."

"Thank you, dearie." Rowena bestowed upon Castiel one of her more charming smiles. "And might I say, you should get in the habit of losing a few layers more often. With a physique like yours, I’d look into something that shows off those arms. Do the world a favour."

"Uh…" Though he seemed human enough most days, it was occasionally obvious that Castiel needed an extra few seconds to go beyond his original programming. "Thanks?"

Still processing his mother’s bombshell, Crowley reflexively replied, "No sexually harassing the staff, Mother."

The bell above the door jingled as another customer walked in. Looking a touch relieved, Castiel said, "I’m just gonna…go…take care of that."

They both waited until he was at the counter serving the new customer before smiling, Rowena chuckling softly. Suddenly unsure if he was ready to be on good terms with his mother, Crowley got up to get the honey and milk he knew she preferred in her tea.

When he returned, she was chewing a mouthful of her scone. Delicately covering her mouth with her hand, she swallowed the bite and reached for another piece, pausing with it halfway to her mouth to say, "Did you bake this? I wasn’t sure if the whole," she waved the hand holding a piece of scone in his general direction, "chef thing was just you blending in or…"

Reluctant to answer, Crowley replied while adding honey and milk to both their cups, carefully not meeting her gaze. "I bake everything here except the pies. Those are Dean’s."

"It’s good." Chancing a look, he caught her smelling the bit of scone in her fingers and smiling softly. "I mean it, you got a second chance and you haven’t wasted it one bit. I only need to know, does this make you happy?"

"Yes," replied Crowley, unhesitating. He didn’t even need to turn around to know Castiel was upselling his maple walnut muffins to the new customer, showering them with praise, regardless of what he might have thought of Crowley himself. From the kitchen, he could hear Dean singing along with the classic rock station on the old radio. Crowley would have to change it back to the golden oldies channel later, but for the moment, Dean was peeling apples and rocking out to Rush’s "Fly By Night". "Yes, it does."

Rowena smiled. "Good." She then popped the bite in her mouth, and for the next little while they sipped their tea in amiable silence.

Just as Crowley began to relax, out of nowhere she said, "So, you wouldn’t happen to know when to expect Samuel’s return, now would you?"

"No, Mother. I have no more insight into Sam Winchester’s schedule than you do."

"D’ye think we could maybe ask Dean? I mean, I came all this way and t’would be a shame to miss such a tall drink of water."

"Mother!"

"Don’t begrudge your mother her happiness in her twilight years. If I want to climb that tree then by god, I’ll take a running start."

Abandoning his tea and slightly-nibbled scone, Crowley retreated to his kitchen, mumbling to Castiel in passing, "I need to bake more cookies for the after school crowd. She’s all yours."

Ignoring the both of them, Crowley retreated to his kitchen, only to find Dean staring at him expectantly. “Well?”

“Trust me, you _don’t_ want to know.”

 

🍩 🍵 🍰

 

 

For once, seeing Crowley's discomfort gave Castiel no pleasure. Perhaps it was because he was too caught up in his own unease regarding Rowena. While they had worked with her numerous times and she had been instrumental in helping them travel between the Apocalypse World and their own, Castiel still always felt slightly unsettled by the witch's presence; her teasing and her casual flirtations always left him feeling wrongfooted. At least she was no longer comparing him to a fish.

She sat alone at the table for a moment, sipping her tea, her eyes glancing every so often towards the kitchen, while Castiel helped two more customers. He knew Crowley had been speaking facetiously when he'd said she was all his, but he still felt compelled to approach her once he had a free minute.

"Did you want anything else?" They didn't usually offer table service, but Castiel couldn't think of any other plausible 'small talk' that would bring him over here.

Rowena offered a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "No, dearie. Looks like a bit of a lull, though. Join me for a bit?"

He hesitated, then glanced behind him to see Dean emerge from the kitchen. Satisfied that the counter was properly manned, and figuring he would speak with Dean later to allay the concerns that flashed on his face when he saw where Cas was, he took the chair recently vacated by Crowley.

"I can stay for a few minutes." He pushed Crowley's plate and mug back slightly from the edge of the table.

She nodded, and her eyes flicked over to the kitchen door. "Is he alright after...after death?"

Castiel thought for a moment before responding. "Coming back is never easy. At least it hasn't been in my experience."

She huffed. "Nor mine."

"But," Cas nodded, "he does seem to enjoy being here. Dean has that effect on people."

Rowena arched an amused eyebrow. "Aye, so I've heard, angel."

He didn't respond except to shift in his chair.

"Speaking of angels," she continued, her voice softer than before, "any word on Gabriel? Maybe he's not…?"

He shook his head. "No. As far as we know..." The unspoken words stuck in his throat.

"I thought," she breathed out, "I thought maybe...maybe it were one of his tricks, you know? Was a crafty one, weren't he?" She sighed and looked down at her laced fingers on the table. "Must not have had the juice for it. Lord knows he gave all he could before..."

"I—" Castiel stopped himself. He wasn't even sure what he was going to say next, and so he let Rowena's words hang in the air.

She shook herself and looked at him, her eyes soft. "'Course I barely knew him. He was your family."

"Gabriel and I…" Castiel began. "Familial concepts among the Host and angelic relationships are...complex, to say the least. We were never close, not until recently."

"You miss him anyway."

"Yes." Somehow, in all this, Castiel had never really admitted that he did miss his brother. After seeing the lengths the Winchesters would go for each other, who was he to mourn the loss of a brother whose presence in his life had been inconsistent at best and meddlesome at worst? And yet…

"You're allowed to, you know." Rowena tilted her head in the general direction of the kitchen. "No one will ever say I was a good mother—not even me—but…"

Cas nodded. "It's complex."

"Aye."

She took a sip of tea, and her eyes widened in excitement as she spotted something over Castiel's shoulder as he heard the café's door open and close. He didn't have to turn to recognize the footsteps behind him.

Sam's steps stopped abruptly and Castiel could hear the cautious smile in his voice. "Rowena?"

"Samuel!"

Castiel stood. "I should...help Dean. At the counter."

And he beat as hasty a retreat as Crowley had only minutes before.


	4. Chapter 4

Crowley had been totally right: Dean didn't want to know what Rowena was up to or why she was hanging around. But he still found out because even in their little café paradise, the universe still deemed it necessary to mess with him, except with more redheaded clientele than the usual impending doom.

He wasn't sure what was worse: the fact that much of Rowena's agenda seemed to be centered around his brother or that Sam didn't really seem to mind. Dean wondered if he should bust out some silverware or holy water, just in case.

Cas had simply rolled his eyes when Dean had fumed, for the thousandth time in the span of the past few weeks, something to the effect of "Why can't Rowena stop batting her damn lashes at him?" and "Can't Sam tell her to cut it the fuck out?"

"Says the one who has been making heart-eyes at the former King of Hell."

Dean rounded on Cas, brandishing a long-handled spoon at him. "First, you are no longer allowed to use emojis or refer to anything in the real world by emojis. B, I do _not_ make heart-eyes at Crowley."

Rowena's tinkling laughter carried across the café to the register, followed by Sam's much deeper chuckle. For fuck's sake, she was making Sam _laugh_. What the—

Crowley came into the doorway, leaning against the jamb and wiping his hands on a towel. "For once, Dean is absolutely correct, Cuddles. I believe it's for _you_ he saves the heart-eyes. For me, it's more of a sultry, grumpy, 'fuck you.' Not many can pull it off, but Squirrel has perfected the art."

He winked at Dean, leaving Dean the only option of shoving the spoon and the empty blender he'd had in his other hand at Cas, who caught them easily and began making the customer's sugary abomination of a drink.

As he walked away, he heard Cas calmly remark, "I suppose you're right. They are very different expressions."

"Oh yes, the journeys that boy's face can go on…"

Dean began ringing up the next customer's order but even though their counter was fairly long, it wasn't long enough to spare him Cas and Crowley's conversation.

"I'm surprised you're not more upset by Rowena's presence, saying nothing of her flirtations with Sam."

"I would be lying if I said it was how I pictured my retirement, such as it is, and I doubt we will ever have a Hallmark card-worthy relationship," Crowley conceded, and Dean could hear the shudder in his voice at such a sappy image, "but if there's space here for a demon such as myself, well…"

"And Sam and Rowena?"

"Don't give a fig what the overgrown flannel monstrosity gets up to, 'long as it doesn't interfere with me. As for Mother?" There was more charming laughter and an "Oh, Samuel!" from the table that Dean tried to ignore as he counted change for a woman who looked like she just got out of a yoga class. Crowley continued, "I think it's probably wise to avoid trying to tell her what she can and cannot do."

"I would agree."

It was bad enough when Crowley and Cas were bickering. Worse when neither one of them wanted to side with him about something. Damn _traitorous_ that they were now teaming up against him about Sam and Rowena. Sonofabitch.

 

"Dean, darling," Rowena chirped as she swept into the café. "Have you got the kettle going?"

"Don't you have a coven to run or people to hex or something?" Dean snipped (probably unfairly—she was on the good side these days, after all), even as he got one of the little tea infusers set up for her. Cas had made up the blend himself, which was fine by Dean. Cas got really into the seasonal flavors and different types of teas, and Dean was just as happy to serve them to customers with no other input on the matter.

Rowena waved him off, then turned to the tall man in his forties or fifties in a well-tailored business suit waiting in line beside her. "I'm terribly sorry. I shouldn't have jumped the queue."

The man gave her a wolfish grin. "Not at all. Can never be upset by a little beauty and charm to break up the morning."

Rowena smiled and brushed a hand over his arm, lingering for just a few seconds. Cas came up to the register with the man's latte just as Dean finished Rowena's tea.

"Put the lady's tea on mine," the man said as Dean started to ring him up.

"Oh I couldn't _possibly_ ," Rowena started but Dean stopped listening to the familiar routine and just put the tea on the guy's bill, which was paid for with a black credit card that probably had a high enough limit to keep even the likes of Crowley temporarily pacified.

Dean's eyes flicked to the empty table where Sam usually sat, and probably would later today. It was only just after 7 a.m., and Sam typically strolled in sometime mid-morning, after he'd gone jogging or whatever hippie healthy bullshit he was into these days.

Rowena took her tea and settled at one of the three diner counter stools they had set up just past the pastry case while Mr. Business took his latte and left with a cocky spring in his step that had everything to do with the witch now crossing her legs and sipping her tea coyly. If he hadn't seen her pull this crap before, Dean might have been impressed.

There was a little lull after a couple of teenagers got their iced mochas and muffins and bolted out quick, talking about how Ms. So-and-So would be _pissed_ if they were late for Physics again, and when the door closed behind them, Rowena set down her cup and threaded her fingers together on the counter.

"I've heard things are getting interesting up in South Dakota."

Dean nodded while rearranging the pastries in the case now that the morning rush had depleted some of them. "Jody called yesterday. Said they'd found a few more of those nasty motherfuckers from Kaia's place."

"I heard the same. How that girl ever survived—" Rowena shook her head. "No matter. She did and now is off traipsing the countryside with Claire. Ah, young love—so sweet."

Straightening back up, Dean frowned. "How do you know about that?"

She grinned. "I worked a wee case with the young huntress _months_ ago, kept in touch since. Just a Fae Queen coming for a little revenge."

"On you?"

Rowena splayed a hand just under her throat. "Oh no. I may have done some fool things in my time, but making deals with the Fae is not one of them. No matter: it's all been settled, Beira has returned to her world, and Claire was a great help."

Dean nodded, remembering his little misadventure to Avalon. "Better you than me. Nuked a fairy in the microwave once. Met more of those douchebags than I ever wanted on the other side. Couldn't pay me to go back."

Her eyes glinting, Rowena said, "You Winchesters. Always full of surprises."

Cas came over, bringing a plate with two snickerdoodles. "Crowley said to try them."

Dean picked one up as Rowena did and took a bite. They had good flavor, but they'd never compete with pie or some of Crowley's other creations. Rowena seemed to enjoy it much more.

"Tell him it pairs beautifully with the tea," she announced, then laid a hand on Cas' wrist. "And I do look forward to sampling what new blends you come up with, love."

Cas looked like a deer in the headlights, which made Dean cough around his bite of cookie, inhaling crumbs. (Which did have the one bonus of hiding Dean's grin at seeing Cas flustered, even if he was also tempted to swat Rowena's hand away for reasons he wasn't keen on examining too closely at the moment.)

"Um. Thank you." Cas pulled his hand back slightly. "I always wonder if they'll be balanced well. I have to rely on scent as they all taste like molecules to me."

"Well, you can always count on me as a taste-tester." She winked. If Cas were the type to blush, Dean thought the guy'd resemble a tomato by now.

"Alright, give it a rest, Rowena." Dean put a hand on Cas' shoulder, gently pulling him away, and nodded at the retiree who had just come in and was studying the menu like she was trying to memorize it. "Why don't you go help her out?"

"Of course."

Rowena watched him go, then turned to Dean. "Jealous, are we?"

"What? No." Dean crossed his arms.

"Mhmm." Rowena sipped her tea with the corners of her mouth turned up.

Dean scowled as Cas shot them a squinty look—damn his Vulcan hearing—but Rowena just lifted her cup of tea and toasted him before speaking to Dean again.

"Will Samuel be in later?"

"I'unno. Probably." He adjusted the little fake cornucopia on top of the glass case that Cas'd found at some yard sale. Dean'd put up a token argument about not wanting the place to look like a kitschy nightmare, but he kind of thought it was cute. (Crowley had only given him a raised eyebrow at his initial objections and subsequent capitulation, which Dean counted as a win.) Now Dean was just worried that Cas (and probably Sam) would go on some Christmas decorating spree if he didn't put his foot down. "Why? Hoping he'll buy you more tea now that the morning rush is over?"

(If Sam ever bothered to actually pay for anything, that is.)

Rowena rolled her eyes. "Is it really so hard to believe my intentions are pure?"

"Pure?" Dean deadpanned.

"Poor choice of words," Rowena admitted with a teasing lilt. "But if you think I'm only here for the tea and baked goods—"

Dean sighed and leaned against the back counter, crossing his ankles in front of him. "No, I don't think that."

"'Bout time." Rowena pushed her empty cup away from her. "He's your brother, your kin—I understand." From the kitchen, a cabinet or something closed much louder than it normally did. Rowena winced. "Aye, well, I understand better now."

"Yeah. Well, I'm kind of an ass 'bout these things, so…" He shrugged and caught Cas' eye down the counter, who gave him a small side-smile. "Can't blame me for looking out for Sammy."

"And I don't." Sliding gracefully off the high chair, Rowena gathered her coat and scarf. "I would like to tell Sam goodbye before I go."

"You're leaving?" Dean couldn't hide the slight surprise and disappointment in his voice, even if he had spent the last few weeks griping about her hanging around.

She smiled, catching his tone. "Not for long, dear. Wouldn't want to deprive you of my wit and charm for long. But I'm lending Jody and the girls a hand with their little monster problem."

Dean started to explain—or maybe defend would be the better word—why he wasn't joining the fight, but Rowena anticipated him and shushed him with a dismissive little wave.

"You've done your part. I still have a lot to make up for."

Dean nodded. "Tell them I say hi."

"Of course." She blew him a little kiss with one hand, the other on the door handle. "Pass that along to Samuel, will you? If I don't see him?"

"Not gonna happen." Fuck what those fan fic writers thought: there was no way in hell he would ever blow his brother a kiss. But the words were without malice and Rowena just grinned and glided away.

 

 

🍪 ☕ 🥧

 

 

When Dean called a ceasefire between Cas and Crowley, they weaponized kindness instead. But, like anything else, kindness was habit-forming. It wasn’t long before their compliments were genuine and their words of support had no hidden sharp edges. Thus, it was perhaps inevitable that they would have banded together for a common cause.

Dean fought the holiday trends tooth and nail, but Crowley was a businessman at heart and it pained him to see opportunities ignored. As November crept on toward December, every other business in town put up Christmas decorations — some not even waiting until after Halloween — and still Dean resisted. It was time to go over his head.

Crowley started with the cookies, making snickerdoodles, ginger snaps, shortbreads, and chocolate peppermint pinwheels. When those saw no resistance, he branched out into candy cane fudge, Christmas light cupcakes, and gingerbread houses, wrapping the latter in clear cellophane and giving them pride of place on top of the display case. Those earned him a little grumble, but no outright objections. But when Crowley suggested decorating the rest of the café to draw in customers off the street, that’s when Dean put his foot down.

“No,” said Dean, wiping down the counter at the end of the day. “I refuse to let you turn this place into fuckin’ Macy’s. I ain’t a sellout. If people are coming in here, I want it to be for the coffee and cookies, not the damn lights.”

Crowley persisted. “But think of the increase in profits. Imagine how many new customers who would be drawn to investigate, only to discover they’ve been missing out all along.”

From the other end of the counter, where he was cleaning the coffee station, Cas chimed in, “Crowley has a point. How would people know the coffee and cookies are any good if they’ve never been in here? Decorations could possibly coax in people who never thought to stop before.”

“Not you, too!” Dean shook his head and tossed his cloth in the handwashing sink. “Fine. You can put up lights. But make sure it looks tasteful, okay? Stick with plain white lights, none of that primary colours crap.”

“When have you known me to be anything but tasteful? There’ll be nothing to complain about, I assure you,” replied Crowley.

For whatever reason, Dean still looked concerned, but Cas reassured him, “I’ll stay behind tonight and supervise. Don’t worry, I understand exactly what you want.”

Dean looked from Cas to Crowley and back again and sighed, his shoulders falling. “Alright, thanks. I’d stick around, but Sam’s been so down since Rowena took off, I gotta go try to get him doing something besides work. He’s been putting together everything Jody and the girls know ‘bout their new monsters and trying to see if he can use that to figure out more ‘bout ‘em, but I doubt he’s caught more than a few z’s.”

Indicating the door with a jerk of his head, Crowley said, “Go take care of your moose, Aziraphale and I’ve got this covered. We’ll honour your vision.”

“I don’t own a bookstore,” Cas replied with a slight frown. “Though I do find it plausible that you began your life as a snake.”

Dean, who had been on his way to the kitchen to grab his jacket, stopped. “Maybe I should stay.”

“No!” Giving Dean a gentle shove in the direction of the kitchen, Cas continued in a more moderate tone, “No, you go look after Sam. Crowley and I will decorate in a way that I’m sure you’ll find appropriate.”

Looking torn, Dean gave in and grabbed his jacket, then handed Cas the keys. Crowley tried his best not to be offended that he still wasn’t trusted with them, though really, neither he nor Cas had any need of keys. In fairness, Dean’s thoughts were mostly on his brother, so he probably hadn’t thought through the whole key thing, but that was something with which he could help.

“Be sure and tell Moose that he has nothing to worry about. Mother is a three hundred year old witch who has come up against all of us, Lucifer, and Amara, and is still here. She’ll be back.”

Dean chuckled. “You got a point there. I’ll tell him.”

Once Dean was out the door, Castiel got back to cleaning the coffee station and spoke without looking at Crowley. “You can teleport and I can’t. I’ll get this place cleaned up while you go get what we need.”

“What ever happened to you staying behind to supervise?”

“Technically, I didn’t lie. I know exactly what he wants and I don’t think it’s possible for us to decorate in a way he’d find inappropriate. I’ll 'supervise' while we both decorate.”

Crowley could hear the air quotes, even if Cas’ hands were occupied. Not bothering to suppress the smile that bubbled up, Crowley replied, “Now that’s thinking like a demon. I’m proud of you, Sparkles.”

Without waiting to hear Cas’ no doubt indignant response, Crowley jumped on the permission to teleport away. He knew exactly where he was going and what he needed to buy. Christmas was coming to Dean’s whether he liked it or not.

After a long night of decking the halls, Cas went back to the boys’ clubhouse and Crowley stayed behind to start the morning’s baking a little early. It wasn’t that Crowley didn’t want to go with him, but he hadn’t been invited and there was no better way to ruin the good thing he had going than to barge in where he wasn’t wanted. No matter, there was gingerbread to bake so he could assemble more gingerbread houses later, there were yule log cakes to bake and roll up, and most importantly, his fruitcakes needed a fresh infusion of bourbon.

He was thus very busy when he heard Dean exclaim from outside, “What the fuck, Cas?! I mean, you got the white lights, but who the hell said to go all Hallmark on the window? And don’t say Crowley, ‘cause after all this time I can damn well recognize your art.”

Crowley hadn’t paid any attention to what Cas painted with his modified Tempera paints, but even before he saw the finished mural he’d known how Dean would react. It could’ve been a Norman Rockwell painting and Dean would’ve said the exact same thing. As it was, Crowley thought the painted holiday treats surrounding an ornate “Merry Christmas from Dean’s” was rather tastefully done.

“I dunno, I like it,” said an unexpected Moose. “It makes the café stand out, and it looks like it was done by a pro. You did a good job, Cas.”

“Thank you, Sam, but there’s more to see inside.”

Tuning out the grumbling long enough to get his gingerbread out of the oven, Crowley waited until Dean didn’t immediately attempt to murder Cas before setting foot out of the kitchen. In actuality, Dean was merely staring in stunned silence, taking in the red and green lights around the ceiling before moving on to stare at the tinsel bedecking the display case, turning in a slow circle which began and ended with the six foot tall tree where the corner table used to be.

Ignoring everything else, Sam focused on the tree. “I guess it’s a good thing you wanted me to work the cash, since it looks like my favourite table is gone.”

“It’s not gone, it’s on the other side of the room.” Understanding dawned as Cas spoke. “But…you meant the spot, not the actual table. I’m sorry, Sam. I’m sure there’s somewhere else we could put the tree.”

“How ‘bout outside, where trees belong?” Dean glared at the tree as if it were responsible for all the decorations.

In the interest of stopping Dean before he could gain any momentum, Crowley cleared his throat. Once he was certain he had everyone’s attention, he smiled and said, “As much as I know you’d love to spend the next few hours removing all of our hard work, I believe you may have a pie or twelve to bake, not to mention all the tarts.”

“Fine!” Dean held up a hand as if to stop Crowley from continuing. “You’re right, we’ve got a lot to get done if we’re gonna fill today’s orders and still have enough for the display case. Cas, can you give Sam a refresher on working cash while I go make pies? I’ve gotta get a bunch more pumpkin done today. Thank fuck the mincemeat’s not till next week.”

“Of course, Dean.”

Taking off his jacket, Dean brushed past Crowley on his way to the coat hooks at the back of the kitchen. “At least you guys didn’t put on any—”

Right on cue, Bing Crosby’s “Winter Wonderland” started playing through the café’s sound system. Dean gave Crowley a raised eyebrows look which clearly said, _if you did this, I’m gonna stab your ass,_ to which Crowley couldn’t help but respond with a sly smirk. When Dean reached for the angel blade he kept with the utensils, Crowley realized his mistake and held up both hands in surrender. “You’ve been watching me this whole time. I never touched the radio.”

“Nothin’ saying you didn’t tune it there earlier.”

From out front, Cas called, “That was me. Sorry, Dean, I didn’t know it would upset you so much. I’ll change it in a minute.”

Sighing, Dean returned the angel blade to its usual place and gave Crowley an _I’d say I’m sorry but I’m still pissed_ shrug. While grabbing a mixing bowl and pulling out the flour bin, he called back, “Whatever. There’s too much to get done. Leave it.”

Decision made, it took only a few minutes for them to fall back into their usual routine, with Dean mixing up large batches of pie dough and Crowley starting on the muffins of the day. The only real difference was instead of Dean’s classic rock station or Crowley’s golden oldies — they’d agreed early on to share the radio, taking turns choosing the station each day — it was all classic Christmas music. One song led into the next and nobody moved to change it.

The aroma of fresh, hot coffee filled the air, mingling with that of the day’s morning glory muffins which announced, in no uncertain terms, that it was time to open the doors. After wrapping his pie dough and putting it in the walk-in fridge for later, Dean carried trays of muffins on his way to the front while Crowley got started on the cranberry scones and Frank Sinatra crooned “Mistletoe and Holly”. The sounds from out front had changed from Cas teaching Sam about customer service to Sam telling Cas what the ladies in Sioux Falls were up to.

Crowley kept an ear on the conversation while cutting butter into his dry ingredients, on the off chance someone mentioned his mother — not that he cared about her, merely because he wanted to keep tabs on the old witch. The conversation stopped, however, when Dean entered the room, resulting in an awkward silence, broken only by Sinatra and the sound of coffee percolating until Cas said, “Oh. Right. I was supposed to change the radio station. Uh…I guess I forgot?”

“Never mind, Cas,” replied Dean. “We’re about to get customers in here, and they’ll probably expect it or something, it being December and all that shit. I guess it can stay.”

Smiling to himself, Crowley returned to his scones, adding milk and eggs and finally the cranberries. Cas hadn’t wanted to pull one over on Dean, but he had easily given in when Crowley had pointed out how much Dean would enjoy the typical “café at Christmas” atmosphere. Though they may have had their disagreements, they found common ground when it came to making Dean happy.

Dean returned with a cup of coffee, which he took with him to the pantry, emerging with a large can of pumpkin under one arm. “I still wish it wasn’t December so I could start with fresh pumpkin. I mean, sure this canned stuff ain’t so bad, but it’s so much better fresh.”

“But then you have to scoop out all the pumpkin guts,” replied Crowley as he rolled out his dough for cutting. “I can think of so many more entertaining ways to get your hands messy.”

Where he might have once responded with a long-suffering eye roll, Dean instead chuckled and set the can on the prep table. “Yeah, but we don’t got a buncha orders for any of those.”

Crowley made a show of looking Dean up and down. “Only because it’s not on the menu.”

“Yeah, well…that’s, uh…that’s—” And of course, because it looked like Dean was trying to give Crowley a real answer for once, that’s when they were interrupted.

“Heya fellas! You miss me?”

It was a voice Crowley didn’t recognize, but Dean obviously did, stopping mid-stammer to dash out front, pausing only to snatch up the angel blade. Crowley followed at a slightly more leisurely pace in the hopes of learning something about what they were up against.

“Gabriel?” Sam’s tone was all stunned disbelief, but at least there was no fear there. “How can we be sure it’s really you?”

Seeing Dean come to a stop with the blade held surreptitiously by his leg, Crowley felt a little better stepping out to see what all the fuss was about. He immediately had second thoughts upon seeing what, to his demonic sight, could only be an archangel. Gabriel being the only archangel with which he had no direct experience but plenty of secondhand knowledge, Crowley mentally cursed whoever had decided he couldn’t retire peacefully.

“It’s really him,” said Cas. “The only one capable of tricking me into thinking they’re Gabriel is Gabriel, so… ”

“So I’m back, baby!” Gabriel jumped on the spot and spread his arms, obviously a much more animated being than his siblings. “Not that I was really gone. Well, sort of. I mean, I had to wait for my grace to replenish enough to manage that portal spell, and then I had to wait again, ‘cause I was running on fumes. But here I am, and here you all are. With…a demon? Whatever.” He dismissed his own question with a wave of his hand. “Does anyone happen to know where I might find Rowena?”

Crowley felt oddly grateful for the lack of customers besides the oblivious Jankowskis. “Gabriel, you said? You know, I always thought you’d be taller.”

Drawing himself up to his full height — which was still shorter than Crowley — Gabriel grimaced and addressed Sam. “I expect it of your brother, but I thought you’d be capable of keeping the vermin out.”

“She’s not here, Gabriel,” said Sam. “She left last month and didn’t say when she’d be back.”

If Crowley hadn’t been sure of Sam’s feelings before, that tone would have made it clear. Apparently Gabriel heard it as well, because he strode over and gave Sam a consoling pat on the arm. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll just have to wait until she comes back then.” Sniffing the air rather exaggeratedly, he glanced down at the display case, then back toward the kitchen. “In the meantime, what’s cookin’?”

 

 

🍩 🍵 🍰

 

 

"Why don't you read the menu?" Dean crossed his arms, obviously less than amused that their little corner of the world was being invaded again. While Cas was more than a little stunned and relieved at the sudden return of his brother, he could understand Dean's reaction. As much as he loved Gabriel, Cas would be the first to admit he could be incredibly infuriating.

Gabriel smirked. "Good to see you jolly as ever, Dean-o. Alright, gimme a couple of those sugar cookies and an extra large caramel mocha frappuccino—whipped cream, too, _s'il vous plaît_."

Dean frowned. "Thought the sugary shit was just Loki's shtick."

Opening up the case, though, he pulled out two sugar cookies decorated to look like snowflakes. (They had all collectively groaned at the cookie cutter in the set that was shaped like an angel, and so all the cookies were just religion/holiday-free winter shapes—snowflakes and snowmen and such, for which Castiel was incredibly grateful. Being called 'a little tree topper' once had been plenty.) He reached around Cas to get a plate, causing him to look up from where he was preparing the drink just in time to catch Gabriel's expression darken for a second before going back to its usual joking façade.

"What can I say? Developed a sweet-tooth after all those years."

While Cas finished up a beverage he could imagine Dean calling "diabetes in a cup", Crowley retreated to the kitchen again, though he was fairly positive the demon would be listening in.

"That'll be nine-oh-six," Dean said from the register, having elbowed Sam, who still looked like he was about to burst with questions, out of the way.

Castiel had to school his face as he handed the cup to a Gabriel with comically raised eyebrows. Sam snapped out of his reverie.

"What? Really?" Sam blinked. "C'mon, Dean."

"Yeah, Dean," Gabriel half-whined, half-pleaded. "No family and friends discount?"

Dean shrugged. "Well, if you ain't got the cash, I'm sure Sammy won't mind if I add it to his tab."

Sam frowned. "Wait...I have a _tab_?"

"Hell yeah, you do! Big mooch. _And_ you're the one who saddled us with those goddamn coffee cups, so consider us even."

Castiel had wondered when Dean would bring this up; he hadn't expected it to take this long, given Dean's usual reaction time to such things.

"That was months ago, Dean."

"Your point?"

Gabriel sipped his drink. "Ah, brotherly love. Great, isn't it, Cas?"

While Dean continued to stare down Sam, Cas replied coolly, "So I've heard."

"Ouch. Well, ok, guess I earned that. But, if anyone could help a guy out with this lack of funds situation… 'Less you wanna wait a week or two for my grace to top off again and I could probably rig the lotto for you…"

Crowley appeared again, just as Cas and Dean opened their mouths to answer. "Surprising as it may be, this is an honest business. No mojo, however well intentioned."

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. "Can't say I'm surprised, keeping the demon on lockdown, but c'mon, a little Heavenly help here is a little different…"

Castiel was about to launch into quite the lecture about so-called _Heavenly help_ and Gabriel hardly being a champion in that regard, and Crowley and Gabriel appeared ready to square off violently in the middle of the café, when Dean held up his hands. "Alright, stow it, fellas. This ain't a pissing contest."

Crowley looked like he was about to protest while Gabriel just looked smug.

"Crowley's right." The glint in Dean's eye at watching Gabriel's grin fall just a little was barely perceptible, but Cas caught it and found himself feeling the same, which was decidedly odd, given who was being defended at the moment. "My place, my rules: no magic or supernatural bullshit. You wanna do that, take it outside and far away from here."

Gabriel's expression cracked even further and suddenly Castiel could only see his brother, not the jokes and tricks he hid behind.

Cas put a hand on Dean's shoulder and spoke quietly, though loud enough for Gabriel to hear as well. "I think we can let this one be 'on the house' this time. Gabriel did risk his life to stop Michael while we escaped."

Grinning once more, Gabriel took his coffee and cookies and hopped up on one of the stools. "Much obliged." Around a mouthful of cookie, he said, "Woo, that's good. You make these, Cassie?"

"I did," Crowley said. He turned on his heel and went back into the kitchen.

Gabriel frowned at the cookie, as if wondering for a moment if it was poisoned, then shrugged and resumed munching. "So what's the 4-1-1? I pop out of that craphole over there and expect to find you all fighting the good fight, but here you are. If I didn't know any better, I'd think this was one of my tricks."

"You zap us back into TV Land," Dean warned, pointing a finger at him, "and the price of a damn cookie's gonna be the least of your worries."

"Tetchy, tetchy." Gabriel turned to Sam. "Alright, Sammy. Big bro's in a mood, how's about you fill me in on your adventures since yours truly got left behind. So much for _ohana_."

Cas could see the strain in Dean's expression as he fought against rolling his eyes, but also the loosening of his shoulders as he stepped back to let Sam take the reins on discussing Michael. He felt his own posture relax at that; Dean had been reluctant to speak of his experiences, though it had come out here and there in bursts of raw honesty (and often with a good dose of whiskey), and Castiel was loathe to force Dean to discuss it more if he was not ready.

Sam glanced at Dean, loyalty and curiosity pulling him two ways, but Dean gave him a nod before turning to Cas.

"Sam and I will keep an eye on him," Cas said lowly. "You go bake."

Dean released a breath and smiled a little, gripping Cas' shoulder for a moment. "Thanks, man."

"Of course."

Simple words from each, but they both knew they carried far more.

While Sam answered Gabriel's questions about Michael, Castiel busied himself straightening out the sugar, napkins, and stirrers station off to the side before wiping down a few tables and collecting a mug that a patron had left behind.

"I woulda thought Dean'd've insisted on the full French maid outfit there, Cassie," Gabriel teased, nodding at the mug and the damp cleaning towel. "I'm thrilled he didn't, but…"

"Oh god," Sam muttered, which only made Gabriel grin more.

Cas, however, simply deadpanned, "The dress is on backorder."

Sam and Gabriel looked at him with identical wide-eyed expressions of disbelief for a second, until Sam's morphed into horror and Gabriel's into a full-bodied, head-thrown-back laugh.

"Oh _man_ ," he wheezed and slid off the stool to throw his arms around Cas, who returned the hug with the mug and towel still awkwardly clutched in his hands. "It's good to be home, little brother."

And for the first time since Gabriel had returned, Cas genuinely grinned. "I'm glad you're back."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious about Rowena and Claire's hunt for a Fae Queen, check out Grey's fic [What Goes Around](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14981423)


	5. Chapter 5

Cas was right: baking helped, and by the time Dean made it back to the front of the café, Gabriel, Sam, and Cas were still talking, though the conversation would get quiet whenever a new customer came in.

Dean didn't even get a chance to put the lid on the pie tray before a woman in her thirties stopped mid-request for a muffin and asked for a slice of pumpkin pie instead.

"Oh, that smells good." She smiled as she accepted the plate. "My cousin ate the last slice at Thanksgiving. Nearly killed her—was saving that for breakfast the next morning."

Dean shook his head. "Ultimate betrayal. Can't blame her, though: I wouldn'ta let that sit over night, either."

"Hey," she said, pretending offense. "Thought the customer was always right."

"Not when it comes to pie."

She laughed and dumped her change and an extra bill in the tip jar. Dean thanked her and wished her a good day. Smiling brightly, she tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear before moving down the counter to get her tea from Cas.

Sam raised an eyebrow from where he was leaning against a wall near where Gabriel was still sitting. "Like you wouldn't kick my ass if I ate your pie."

"Damn straight I would."

Gabriel was watching him curiously, twisting his nearly empty cup between his hands on the counter. "So that's it? Kicked my big brother's ass once and for all, kicked my other kinda big brother's ass, and decided to throw in the towel to make eyes with the locals?"

"I wasn't 'making eyes'—" Dean protested.

"Maybe not, but she sure was." Gabriel looked over Dean's shoulder to give her an appreciative once over. "Yep, she's definitely got the hots for baker."

Dean refused to look over and was luckily spared by Cas' return. Cas had always stood too close, but the slight brush of fingers over Dean's wrist was new, and Dean subtly pressed their shoulders together in response.

Gabriel still caught the movement, the bastard, but for once he didn't turn it into some big fucking deal and just said, "Good to see you're _settling in_ , Cassie."

Cas ignored it and instead asked, "What are your plans now that you're back?"

Gabriel stood and brushed imaginary crumbs off his jacket. "Heaven still a crapfest?"

"I wouldn't know, but I assume things are functioning well enough for now. We were able to salvage some of Michael's grace to power Heaven."

"But that battery's gonna drain eventually." Gabriel ran a hand over his mouth. "Fudge nuggets."

Cas glanced between Dean and Sam before looking back at Gabriel, all of them thinking of what the Kentucky Fried Demon put Gabriel through.

"No one is asking you to do that," Sam said, carefully.

Gabriel snorted. "Nah, Heaven doesn't ask. You know that. But…" he shrugged. "I'm not signing myself up to be a copper top, but there might be something I can do."

"You're gonna fix Heaven?" Dean asked, trying to keep the scoff out of his voice but not really succeeding.

"You saying an old dog can't learn new tricks?" Gabriel's eyebrows waggled at that last bit and Dean was reminded once again why Cas was the only angel he planned on keeping around.

"'Course not," Sam cut in, pursing his lips at Dean.

Gabriel's eyes flicked between the brothers, then he clapped his hands together. "Alright, well how about you wrap up a coupla more of those cookies and I'll be on my way. Put it on the Samsquatch's tab."

Sam grimaced but didn't object, even when Dean smirked at him.

"You know," Dean said to Gabriel as Cas dropped two snowman cookies into a small white bag, "if you come back, we got a special this month: keep the winged dickbags off our cases—" Cas side-eyed him. "—present company excluded—and get a free drink."

Gabriel grinned. "Whipped cream and a cherry on top?"

"Don't push it."

"Always knew I liked you, Deanster." Gabriel accepted his cookies and gave them all a mock-salute. "See ya, boys. Sam, if you see the lovely Rowena, give her my regards."

Sam just glared as Gabriel chuckled, spun on his heel, and left the store, disappearing from the sidewalk with a flutter of wings before the door could close again. Dean didn't blame his brother's reaction: considering Gabriel's idea of help during the Apocalypse was porn, he really didn't want to know what the dude meant by 'regards'.

"Think he'll be back?" Sam asked, running his fingers through his hair.

"You better hope he does." He tore the receipt off the machine and pressed it into Sam's hand. "He owes you three bucks."

 

 

🍪 ☕ 🥧

 

 

Christmas came and went with little fanfare in Lebanon. Crowley filled all the orders for Yule log cakes, cookie platters, and the rich boozy fruitcakes he’d been tending for weeks. There were still a few more cookie platter orders for New Years Eve, but for the most part, café life returned to normal.

The week between holidays at the end of the year was a busy time for most. Even though Lebanon was a relatively quiet town, it seemed like everyone stopped by the cafe at least once that week while out shopping or on their way to visit relatives. Making the most of the increased traffic, Crowley turned cake trimmings and scraps into rum balls for the folks on their way to parties and made frosted brownies for the overwhelmed shoppers. He was just bringing a fresh batch of brownies out to the display case when the bell above the door jingled and his mother swanned in wearing a warm cream coloured wool coat.

“Hello dearies,” she said. “Happy Christmas, merry solstice, and whatever else I missed.”

Crowley nodded politely and greeted her, but was drowned out by Sam who had perked up the moment he saw her. “Rowena! It’s so good to see you again.”

There was no denying that the attraction there was mutual, and a part of Crowley still wanted to tell them to back off, to find someone else. He wanted to protest that he would never call Sam “dad”, but the rational part of him knew that Sam was probably the only one who would be as repulsed by that notion as him. Certainly, Sam was a much better option than that arrogant archangel and his “regards”.

As if he’d read Crowley’s mind, Cas said, “You missed Gabriel. He was here a couple weeks back. Said to give you his regards.”

“Did he now?” Rowena smiled, looking like the cat who got the cream. “I knew he wasn’t the sort to wind up dead so easily. Pity I don’t have his number. Did he say where he was going?”

“Heaven,” replied Cas, causing a couple of their nosier customers to surreptitiously glance over.

Sam was busy looking dejected, so it was up to Crowley to do damage control. “You know, this probably isn’t a good time to chat.” Snatching up a plate, he grabbed one of the fresh brownies out of the display case and handed it across the counter to his mother. “Here, on the house. You’ve been working with the ladies out in Sioux Falls, yes? You’ve earned it. Moose, I need to get back to baking, but why don’t you see what sort of tea we have steeping.”

While Sam flashed him a grateful look, Rowena was left holding her plate with a bewildered expression, as if uncertain where she’d gone wrong, which quickly morphed into a tender smile. “Of course, sweetie, you get back to work and I’ll sit a bit. Then, when you’re all done and you’ve closed up shop for the day, we can all go ring in the new year together and have a proper chat.”

Stunned momentarily speechless, Crowley held up an index finger and pointed to the kitchen. “That’s, uh, not—”

“Sounds great, Rowena,” Sam interrupted.

Crowley decided that explaining that the invitation wasn’t for him was a problem for later. For the moment, he let Sam take over so he could get back to the kitchen where Dean was working on coconut cream pies, oblivious to their visitor since he didn’t have Crowley’s hearing. Dean looked up at his approach, but kept stirring his custard pie filling on the stovetop. “What took you so long? Thought you were just bringing your brownies out front.”

As they were closing early and remaining closed the next day, Crowley didn’t actually have anything to bake, so he gathered ingredients for a cake, since that would be fine to sit for a day. “Apparently Mother has decided I’m invited to your New Year’s Eve celebrations.”

“Rowena’s back? Wait, why wouldn’t you be invited?” Dean’s expression said it was a legitimate question. When Crowley didn’t answer right away, Dean continued, “Huh, I guess that explains Christmas. Assuming makes you an ass who missed out on the fun stuff, y’know. Some of us were pretty damn disappointed to think you’d bailed on us.”

Keeping his eyes on the sugar he was measuring, Crowley measured his words with equal care. “So…what I’m getting from this is that you’d like me to get drunk with you while we wait for the clock to roll over.”

Taking the pot from the stove, Dean poured his custard through a sieve. “Hey, your booze of choice is fuckin’ pricy, so BYOB, but yeah. Apparently Rowena’s gonna be there, so I want all the distractions I can get.”

He’d just opened up the shredded coconut when Cas poked his head in and said, “Dean, Rowena invited herself over for New Year’s Eve and Sam agreed. Should we be worried about him?”

“Crowley’s gonna be there, too. I’m not worried about Sam, but tell Crowley he’s invited.”

Cas didn’t even hesitate. “You’re invited. You were also invited for Christmas.”

Thinking of the empty house on the other side of town where he'd spent Christmas alone, it was no contest. Far be it from him to argue with the both of them.

Contrary to Dean’s assumption, Crowley opted to forego the Craig, and instead brought an array of alcohol and mixers so as to spend the first part of the evening playing bartender. He mixed drinks on one end of the Bunker kitchen’s island while Dean cooked finger foods to supplement what he’d already prepared at the other end and the others sat at the kitchen table. The whole affair felt domestic and cozy.

With the air redolent with the smells of sizzling bacon and fried mushrooms, Rowena regaled them all with tales of hunting with Jody Mills, Claire Novak, and several other ladies of whom Crowley had never heard. Admittedly, he only listened with half his attention, his eyes drifting to watch Dean cook. Something about identifying the new monsters’ weaknesses was all he caught. Once he heard that there hadn’t been a demon sighting in months, he felt like he’d been absolved of any responsibility for their troubles and could relax. Sipping his drink, Crowley enjoyed the comfortable atmosphere so much that he almost didn’t notice when his name was said.

“Hey Crowley,” said Dean, beer in hand, “you’re fallin’ behind. Everyone else’s had two drinks and you’re still on your first, which, y’know, no excuse when you’re the bartender. All Night Long is just the name of the drink, not how long you should sip it.”

Having told no one what he was drinking, Crowley stared a moment with raised eyebrows, shrugged, and downed the rest of his drink. “I was merely giving you a head start.”

“Uh huh, which is why you were drinkin’ that lounge chair tropical beachy thing. It’s New Year’s Eve, get off the beach.”

Frowning, Sam held up his drink and examined it. “I don’t think there’s a universal New Year’s Eve drink.”

“It’s champagne, sweetie, and don’t worry, I brought some, but it’s for later,” said Rowena, taking the opportunity to lay a hand on Sam’s arm.

Opting to ignore his mother’s shenanigans, Crowley got out another glass and started mixing up another All Night Long. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

Into the shaker he poured sweet and sour mix, coconut rum, coffee liqueur, vodka, crème de cacao, and pineapple juice. With each ingredient, Dean grew visibly more interested, actually pausing in the middle of plating his cheese and bacon stuffed mushrooms to watch, but when the finished drink was placed before him, he balked. “Nuh uh, no way. I ain’t drinkin’ that frou frou crap.”

“Really, Dean?” Sam regarded his brother skeptically. “What ever happened to my brother, the Purple Nurple drinker?”

Pointing at Sam with his beer, Dean’s face said he wasn’t budging. “That’s different and you know it. Those were shots.”

Sam shrugged. “Y’know what, Crowley, if Dean’s not gonna try it, I will.”

Crowley hadn’t missed the wild-eyed “please don’t make me try this” look on Sam’s face while he was measuring ingredients, but apparently nothing motivated a Winchester quite like proving his brother wrong. He didn’t even bother trying to convince Dean, instead handing the cocktail to Sam with a smile.

Taking the glass, Sam gave it a dubious look before taking a cautious sip. Everyone watched as he frowned and took another taste.

“What? What’s wrong with it?” asked Dean.

“This is what real cocktails taste like?” Sam indicated the glass, incredulous. “The last one I had was in college. It tasted like paint thinner and Mountain Dew. This is actually really good.”

Dean strode over and grabbed the glass from Sam. “Gimme that. Can’t be that good.”

As Dean drank, Cas gave him a look of fond amusement. Crowley was all set to say something about that until he realized he’d been giving Dean the same look.

“Alright, you’ve had your sip, can I have it back now?” Sam tried to reach for the glass, but Dean stepped back with it.

“Nope, Crowley made this one for me. Get your own.”

“You said you didn’t want it!”

“In my experience, the things Dean claims to want no part of are the things he most enjoys.” Though Cas was addressing Sam, he looked Dean in the eyes the whole time.

Crowley smiled. “I had noticed that as well. Let’s test a theory, shall we?” While Dean spluttered a lame excuse, Crowley poured a Seduction on the Rocks — butterscotch schnapps, orange juice, and lemon lime soda with a couple ice cubes — and offered the glass to Dean.

It was comically obvious when Dean identified the ingredients and realized what the drink was called. Setting aside the cocktail he’d wrestled away from Sam, he reached for the glass but froze, caught like a deer in the headlights. Crowley could practically see the thoughts parading across his face. He’d been called out and no matter which answer he chose, the veracity would be in doubt.

“So…uh…food’s done. If everyone helps carry something, we should be able to get it all in one trip. Sam, you wanna show everyone to the Dean Cave?”

While Dean’s mind was on other things, Sam snatched up the half-empty glass along with a platter of food. Rowena, watching him, smiled fondly and rolled her eyes.

Cas caught Crowley’s eye and gave him a bland, unimpressed look. “What does that mean for your theory?”

“It means,” began Crowley, but then Dean picked up a plate of food and the Seduction on the Rocks and offered Crowley a smile. “We’re not so far off.”

Crowley would be the first to admit he’d never seen all of the rooms in the Bunker, but at first he was more than a little upset to have been excluded from this one. From the foosball table to the keg lights to the bar and bar lights, everything about it screamed of the most intimate moments he and Dean had ever shared. Though it was entirely Dean’s aesthetic, it was powerful nostalgia and he wasn’t sure how to feel.

“Welcome,” said Dean, holding out his drink in what must have been meant as a grand gesture, “to the Dean Cave. Sorry ‘bout the small TV. We had a bigger one, but that’s a long story. If you wanna just set the food down on the table there, booze can go on the bar and I call dibs on the middle of the couch.”

Doing as Dean said, Sam claimed one of the two La-Z-Boy recliners on either side of the sofa. “He set this up over a year ago and he’s still stupidly proud of it.”

“Well I think it’s splendid,” said Rowena. “I was beginning to wonder whether we were going to watch the festivities all squashed together at your kitchen table.”

“If it came to that, the library would’ve been better,” replied Cas, sliding onto the cushion beside Dean.

Crowley examined his remaining options. He could sit in the other La-Z-Boy and leave his mother to sit beside Dean on the sofa, or he could claim that cushion for himself. It was no contest. Setting down the bottles and plate he carried, Crowley took the seat beside Dean.

Rowena, having taken an extra moment to divest herself of her burdens, was left with the other recliner. “Right then, let’s watch people being morons on the telly.”

While watching the broadcast, they filled the hours with snacks and drinks. Crowley kept mixing cocktails for everyone to try. Some were a hit, some less so, but with each one, Dean got more and more into it.

On a whim, Crowley asked if there were any requests, to which Dean replied, “Yeah, how ‘bout a Blowjob? Always wanted to try that one.”

Crowley couldn’t help the flirty smirk which was his instinctive response. “I think you’ve already tried it, but I wouldn’t mind giving you another.”

From his comfy chair, Sam snickered. “He’s definitely tried that.”

“Och aye,” said Rowena, curled up in Sam’s lap, “but seems it wasn’t memorable. He should give it another go.”

Cas frowned, squinting over his Fuzzy Navel — the drink from three drinks ago, which he’d been slowly sipping ever since. “Are we still talking about a drink or…”

“Whatever, we don’t have whipped cream anyway,” mumbled Dean, fiddling with his empty glass.

“I’ll bring some next time,” said Crowley. In that moment, he finally felt that there would be a next time and that it wasn’t some one time thing. “In the meantime, if you’ve truly avoided all cocktails, I feel morally obligated to introduce you to one of the classics.”

He ignored all questions while he mixed vodka, peach schnapps, cranberry juice and orange juice, then handed it to Dean who accepted it with speculative eyes. As Dean took his first sip, Sam said, “Okay, but what’s it called and can I have one, too?”

Slowly raising his eyes from his Sex on the Beach, Dean slurped another sip and stared at Crowley, obviously well aware of the drink’s name. “Uh…”

Rowena, bless her black heart, smiled indulgently and caressed Sam’s cheek. “Never you mind. It’s getting on to midnight, so I think it’s about time we should open the bubbly.”

While Rowena slipped off Sam’s lap to fetch the champagne she’d brought, Dean pointed at his drink and exaggeratedly mouthed for Crowley to see, “Great idea.”

Beside Dean but unable to see what he’d mouthed, Cas pointed at the television with his drink. “Do we really need more alcohol? The logistics of glass cleaning and drink mixing are time consuming. The show’s almost over and you’ve missed some great performers.”

“Pish tosh!” replied Rowena. “Sure, some of them’ve been real belters, but I think they’re counting on us to be right plastered by now, and I dunno about you, but I’m inclined to oblige.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Sam, getting up to rinse out his glass for champagne.

Rowena watched him with an agonized expression with which Crowley could sympathize. “Are you quite certain you don’t have champagne flutes? Or even a wine glass could do in a pinch.”

“What you see is what you get,” replied Dean, still looking at Crowley.

Clean pint glasses were procured for the champagne, which Rowena pronounced “adequate”. Then, drinks in hand and seats reclaimed — including Rowena in Sam’s lap like she’d never left — they waited for the ball to drop.

As Ryan Seacrest, Jenny McCarthy, and the crowd in Times Square counted down the seconds, Cas, Sam, and Rowena counted along with them. Dean looked at Crowley, Crowley looked at Dean, and the invitation in his gorgeous green eyes was clear. It was nothing like before, when Dean was a demon and his eyes full of seductive cruelty. No, this time was different. Dean was wonderfully, intoxicatingly mortal and Crowley was there at Dean’s request.

The people on the screen shouted Happy New Year and confetti rained down on Times Square, and like so many of the people in that crowd, Crowley gave in to the moment. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he pressed his lips to another’s with no deal in mind. The lips which greeted his were plush and perfect and oh so eager. It was what he’d always wanted from practically the moment they’d met.

It was such a small thing. Dean’s hand slid up Crowley’s thigh. Nothing more than that, but it was enough.

Crowley broke off the kiss and looked into Dean’s eyes once more, mentally tallying up how many drinks they’d had. It was too easy to forget the limitations of the only two mortals in the room and though they had an abnormally high tolerance for alcohol, they had apparently both misjudged the potency of the sweet, boozy cocktails they’d drunk. As recently as four years earlier, the dubious consent wouldn’t have bothered Crowley one bit.

“It’s that sort of party now, is it?” said Rowena, causing Crowley to look over and see Sam staring open-mouthed. “I nearly forgot about that bit. Come on then, Sam, let’s start the year off on the right foot.”

Sam didn’t exactly protest, leaving Crowley with a tipsy Dean frowning in adorable confusion. Behind Dean, a stone-cold sober Cas glared at Crowley, terrible hurt behind the anger. Inwardly, Crowley groaned at the conscience he’d grown, entirely due to the company he’d kept.

“C’mon Sparkles,” said Crowley, standing up beside Dean. “Seems Dean’s had one too many. Let’s help him off to bed.”

The reminder that Cas was sitting on his other side made Dean turn around. “Oh, that’s a good idea. Yeah, you should both help. That’d be good.”

Crowley met Cas’ accusatory glare and attempted to convey his sincerity. “We’ll talk about it in the morning, after you’ve had a chance to sleep this off and sober up.”

“Yes, I think that’s a conversation that needs to happen, and everyone should be sober for it,” said Cas, his expression softening only slightly.

Between the two of them, they easily helped Dean up and out of the room, past where Rowena and Sam were enthusiastically snogging. It was a sight Crowley was only too happy to leave behind him, even though what lay ahead of him was likely a chaotic mess. He only hoped he’d still be welcome back once Dean had a clear head.

 

 

🍩 🍵 🍰

 

 

"You guys're great," Dean slurred as Cas propped him more upright while Crowley opened the door. "'ve I told you that? Just great."

"You're drunk, Dean." Cas nudged Dean forward to step into the room. He was fairly sure Dean could make it on his own, and had probably done so in far more inebriated circumstances, but Cas was unwilling to let Crowley take sole responsibility over him.

He also could have zapped away the alcohol in Dean's veins with a slight exertion of grace, and saved him the coming hangover, but given what had transpired moments before, Cas was not feeling particularly merciful.

Pettiness wasn't one of his more admirable qualities, he knew, but he supposed there were worse flaws.

"Not _that_ drunk," Dean protested.

"Certainly debatable," Cas muttered, but Dean missed it as Crowley chimed in, "Even if this isn't one for the Dean Winchester Alcoholism Hall of Fame—"

"Hey!" Dean pouted.

"—you are absolutely nowhere near even the general vicinity of sober," Crowley continued, stepping back from the doorway as Dean shuffled to the bed, half-fell/half-sat on the edge of the mattress, and bent down to undo his laces.

Boots tossed into a corner, Dean looked around the room, then lazily over at Cas and Crowley. "I c'n put myself to bed, guys. Don't need a babysitter 'r someone to tuck me in."

"Of course," Cas and Crowley answered in unison, before shooting looks at each other.

Leaning back onto his pillow, Dean grinned. "Jinx." He shot upright again, swaying slightly. "Wait. Is jinxing like that a real thing?"

"No, and go to sleep, Dean." Castiel sighed.

"Oh-kay. G'night, fellas." And with that, Dean flopped back down on the pillow.

Crowley shut the door and then looked uncomfortably at Castiel. "Well, I suppose—"

"Good night, Crowley."

The demon's expression froze for a fraction of a second before he nodded once. "Yes. Well. Happy New Year and all that to you, too, I suppose. See you in the morning."

With a snap of his fingers, Crowley disappeared, leaving Castiel with his hands hanging uselessly by his sides in the cold hallway. He listened for a moment at the door, even knowing how much Dean would hate it that Cas was "creeping on him", but until he heard Dean's steady breathing and the occasional snore, he felt rooted to the spot. Faintly, he could heard the low murmurs and laughter of Sam and Rowena from the direction of Sam's room, and so he went the opposite way, to the kitchen.

It might all taste like molecules, but for some reason, Castiel really needed a cup of coffee right now. Something to help him wait until morning.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean would have loved to claim that he blacked out and didn't remember a damn thing from New Years and just blame it all on Crowley's fucking cocktails, but the fact of the matter was, as drunk as he might've been, that night had been on constant repeat in his brain in the week since. The only thing that he was a little fuzzy on was if he really had seen his brother and Rowena way too damn cozy in that chair, but that was a headache for another day or century.

"That's the salt, Dean," Crowley chided quietly from the station next to him.

Dean scowled and pushed the container away before changing directions and getting the sugar he'd wanted in the first place. Crowley put down an empty cookie sheet by the cooling rack and came up beside him.

"What?" he growled but Crowley just looked at him steadily.

"You're distracted and unless you want to ruin a perfectly good pie and then spend the rest of the morning storming around my kitchen—"

"Whoa, you forget whose name is on this place?"

"—making a general ass of yourself," Crowley continued, as if Dean hadn't said a damn thing, "I suggest you take a break or do _something_ to get yourself out of this cloud of doom and gloom you've been stumbling around in of late. The brooding hero is so passé."

Dean glared back levelly, but he could feel the heat of shame rising from his gut at the memory of that night, when he'd fucking _kissed Crowley_ and probably would have done more if Crowley and Cas—Jesus, the look on Cas' face—hadn't hauled his sorry ass off to bed with the promise (warning? threat?) that this would be discussed in the morning when everyone (Dean) was as sober as a nun. 'Course that'd turned into Dean hiding and ignoring everyone the next day and then burying his head in baking and running the café once they opened up again after the holiday.

But there was a certain glint in Crowley's eye—one that Dean was far too familiar with—mixed with genuine concern—which was decidedly _not_ familiar to Dean coming from _Crowley_ —that made his shoulders fall. Behind Crowley, through the kitchen door, he could see Cas serving a customer, his shoulders square and stiff. Cas had been getting more and more relaxed ever since they opened the store, but in the last week, you woulda thought Cas had just fallen off the angel assembly line. He'd barely even looked Dean in the eye since New Years—not that Dean'd been trying all that hard himself.

He looked back at Crowley, who was now standing just this side of close, like he wanted to be closer but wasn't sure if he had permission, which, again, was a side of Crowley that still surprised the hell out of Dean but he wasn't in the mood to analyze that.

Right now, Crowley was right. He needed a distraction. He needed to get out of his own damn head, and what the hell...in for a penny, in for a pound or whatever, right?

The storage room would be tight for two people, but he didn't think Crowley would complain.

 

It took about two more weeks for Sam to snap.

The Bunker door closed behind Dean and the metal stairs clanged familiarly as he made his way down to the War Room. He knew he was grinning, even if he was trying to keep it under wraps, but he felt more relaxed than he had in ages and this latest little athletic event with Crowley was enough to quiet—at least temporarily—the roiling in his stomach he'd been feeling over this whole situation ever since it started.

And, man, was "temporarily" all too accurate. Cas, who had been sitting in the library with Sam, took one look at Dean and got up and left, not even bothering to offer a shitty excuse. Dean's face fell but he fixed it into an eyebrow-raise and a smirk as Sam sighed and glared at him.

"What's his problem?" Dean jerked a thumb in Cas' direction.

Sam's glare just intensified. "You're an ass."

"What? What'd I do?" Dean, of course, knew _exactly_ what he'd done but he was going to ride the Denial Train right past Sam Station if he could.

"Your t-shirt's inside out, for one thing."

Dean pulled at the black collar. _Sonofabitch. Oh well._ He was just going to hop in the shower anyway, whenever he managed to escape Sam's little intervention. He shrugged as casually as he could and started towards the door, but Sam stopped him in his tracks.

"You're better than this, Dean."

That roiling in his stomach bottomed out and he stilled.

"What did you say?" He turned, his arms stiff by his sides.

Sam was looking back at him coolly. "I said, you're better than this."

"The hell does that mean?" Dean's voice took on an ugly edge.

Sam sighed, but deflated. He shifted uncomfortably. "Look, I know you're not blind, even you've gotta realize what Cas feels for you. And I mean, I get it: if Crowley had kissed me, I'd probably be cruising for hook-ups to forget it, too, but you don't have to flaunt it in front of Cas—"

"Wait, _what?_ " Dean blinked, trying to follow Sam's train of thought. "You think I've been picking up random chicks?"

Sam stopped, obviously surprised. "Uh. Yes?"

He couldn't help it: it was just so fucking absurd, he started laughing. He wasn't sure if it was part relief or what. His sides hurt and he could barely breathe, and for a half a second, he considered taking the out Sam had given him.

But it was only for half a second.

He was done being that Dean, even if he wasn't sure he deserved the little bit of comfort he'd carved out for himself in this new life.

Sam's forehead was creased, trying to puzzle out Dean's laughter. Deciding the shower could wait, Dean went to the cabinet and pulled out a decanter of the good stuff and two tumblers. Without even asking, he poured two generous measures and slid a glass across the table to his brother before taking a seat opposite. This was going to take alcohol...lots of it.

"Dean?"

"I, uh," Dean started, staring at his glass, "I haven't been picking up girls." He took a sip and looked up, waiting for his brother's reaction.

Sam arched an eyebrow in disbelief, and then the pieces slid home and his eyes widened. "So. Not girls."

"No."

"Guys."

"Singular."

Sam peered at him. "You've been...with _Crowley_?"

'Bout time he clued in. But, ignoring that, now it was Dean's turn to raise a brow. "Says the one who's been hooking up with a certain red-haired witch."

For a second, their eyes met with the realization of that fucked up family tree situation before the moment passed and they silently resolved never to broach that topic again.

Sam took a large mouthful of the Craig, grimacing a little as it went down, which probably had more to do with quantity than quality. "Jesus. I thought...I thought…" Sam frowned. "I mean, I guess I knew it went _one_ way, that they both… I just didn't realize that you…"

Dean grunted and took a sip from his own glass. "Yeah, well, now you know."

"I should have known before. You're my brother."

Dean shrugged.

Sam put down his glass. "Why didn't you _say_ something?"

"I'm sorry, have you met me?" Wasn't like he'd gone out of his way to hide it, at least not in recent years, but he hadn't exactly been going on parade either. He'd kind of reached a point where he figured that if Sam realized that he swung more than one way, so be it. If he didn't, Dean wasn't gonna hold a damn TED Talk about it.

"Touché." Sam ran a hand through his hair as Dean spun his glass lightly on the table. "So all the times I joked about your Summer of Love…"

"'Love' probably wasn't the word for it."

"And now?"

"Now what?"

Sam spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. "Well, you said love wasn't the word for it _then…_ "

"Oh, Christ, _that's_ what you wanna know? How I _feel_ about this whole shitshow?" Dean's hand tightened on the glass. "I dunno. It just happened. It's sex, Sam. Ain't a whole mystery."

Sam's jaw twitched ever so slightly at the mention of sex, and if Dean didn't know his brother better than anyone, he might have missed it. Sam's eyes studied Dean, but there was more concern and confusion and consideration than judgment or disgust. He pursed his lips and seemed to take a century before replying, during which time, Dean felt like his insides were gonna crawl up and out of his throat.

"Well, whatever it is you _think_ this is," Sam said at last, "you need to talk about it."

"Isn't that what we're doing right now?"

Sam finished the last of his Craig with a gulp. "Not with _me_ , though I'm glad you told me—and thanks for the scarring mental images—"

"Oh, you wanted scarring details? Got _plenty_ of those," Dean grinned, even if he knew the deflection was a desperate thing, doomed to failure. Sam, naturally, ignored him.

"—but you need to talk to Cas _and_ Crowley. Because unless things at the café are drastically more cheery than they have been around here lately, this whole thing's gonna blow up in your face." Sam stood up to leave, but stopped at the door. "You and Cas have been through too much to let Crowley come between you."

Dean grunted again. _Kid's not wrong._ But he didn't think Sam was entirely right, either.

 

The wind was bitchingly cold, forcing Dean to turtle into his jacket as he unlocked the back door of the bakery. Of course his hands fumbled over the key and the pre-sunrise dark didn't help any. Door finally opened, he reached a hand to flick a switch, but before he could, the lights on the other side of the kitchen turned on, revealing Crowley giving him a self-satisfied half-grin.

“Dramatic much?" Dean muttered, still hunched in his coat.

"Yes, well, you've never been one for subtlety, so…" Crowley waved a vague hand.

"How long you been here?"

"Not long." Crowley glanced around the kitchen. "Actually, I arrived only moments before you. Hadn't bothered to turn on the lights yet."

Dean grunted. Damn demons. "What, and you couldn't unlock the damn door for me? Nearly lost my fingers to fucking frostbite."

"An oversight, I assure you." Crowley gave him a coy once over. "However, if you're concerned about heat loss, I'm sure we can think of something to rectify the situation."

Dean was about to agree—nothing like a warm up before getting to work, right?—but he paused instead, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"What're we doing, Crowley?"

Crowley's expression fell for the briefest of moments before he shrugged. "Well, I've always prefered to improvise in the moment, but if you want to discuss safewords and the like... "

Dean rolled his eyes. "Cut the crap, Crowley. You know what I'm talking about."

For once, Crowley looked to be at a loss for words, and in any other circumstance, Dean might have enjoyed the victory.

"I get why you're here," Dean said, gesturing around the kitchen. "Whole redemption-retirement thing. But this?"

"There's a 'sucking up to the boss' retort somewhere in there," Crowley mused, but Dean wasn't buying it.

"C'mon. Last time it was because I was a Knight and I could do something for you. But now? What's your angle? You could get ass anywhere but 'stead you're slumming it in the back room here with me."

"Well, we _are_ in Lebanon, Kansas, of all hellholes. I believe there's a saying, 'the odds are good but the goods are odd'." Dean didn't respond, except to look at him steadily, but Crowley didn't crack. "One could ask the same about you, Squirrel. You've got the angel that everyone in Heaven, Hell, and everywhere in between is ready to drop their knickers for, ready to drop _his_ knickers for _you_ , yet, here we are."

Dean thought back to what Sam had said. Was this, with Crowley, just a distraction, what he was settling for?

(And speaking of settling, that was definitely something he didn't want to contemplate in the same vicinity as him and Cas, 'cause in that situation, he wasn't the one with the upperhand.)

Maybe that was true four years ago, but he and Crowley had come a long way since then. He thought. He'd like to think.

"No," Dean said and Crowley frowned, understandably, as he hadn't been following along with Dean's mental wanderings. "That's not all this is. Me 'n Cas—that's something else, but that doesn't mean this is nothing."

Crowley studied him and Dean wished he knew what the guy was thinking. The silence stretched until Dean thought he would snap.

"You know," Crowley drawled, crossing to the hooks on the wall and taking his apron, "this may be cliché, being in a bakery and all, but perhaps you can have your cake and eat it, too."

Dean stared, watching wordlessly as Crowley got out the flour and various other ingredients. "Whaddya mean?"

"I mean," Crowley said in between measuring out flour and baking powder, "that if you recall—though you may not, given the number of cocktails you imbibed, and really, that was poor planning on my part, I'll admit—I offered to have this conversation with you and Mr. Dark and Surly and was summarily ignored. Now, if you've managed to pry your head out of your arse…" He tipped the bowl in Dean's direction, indicating the powdery mix. "Cake. It's meant to be eaten."

Dean blinked but the words he wanted to say weren't ready yet, and so he went with the obvious. "You're actually making cake?"

"And this is the man who saved the world…" Crowley rolled his eyes. "Yes, you idiot. Now either bake something and make yourself useful or get out of my kitchen and sort out this bloody mess."

Dean shook his head and went to get started on the day's selection of pies. He still couldn't believe that this was his life, that this was how his morning was starting out. Maybe Crowley was right, but the fact remained, he had to talk to Cas because if Cas wasn't on board… Dean didn't want to think about that, didn't want to think about choosing because there was a part of him that knew what he would choose and it would make him feel sick and guilty as hell. And the worst of it was, he didn't think Crowley would blame him. Hell, up until three weeks ago, that'd been their _status quo_ anyway. But he didn't want to go back to that. He knew he couldn't actually leave everything in the past in the past, but he could damn well try.

Cas would be in later—better to think things over now and go into that with a cool head.

"Still my kitchen," he muttered, taking up his station a few feet from Crowley. But silently, he gave him a grateful look, and hoped Crowley understood all he couldn't say.

Behind the sardonic grin was a flicker of something more genuine. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, darling."

 

"You sure you two don't wanna stay a bit?" Dean asked as he snapped a lid on Kaia's green tea and handed it over.

"It really would be no trouble," Cas added quickly. "We have room."

Claire shook her head. "Nah, not that much farther to Jody's, 'specially now we got caffeine. Easy drive."

Kaia grimaced. "Says the one in control of the radio…" Claire lightly punched her arm. "Hey, you're gonna make me spill my tea. Jerk."

"You love it."

Dean couldn't help but grin. "Well, them's the rules: driver picks the music." He paused, his eyes flicking out the window where he could see Claire's maroon hatchback. "How's she running?"

Claire rolled her eyes. "Fine. I got an oil change and new brakes last month."

"You sure? I can…"

But Claire (and Kaia) managed to convince him that the car was running just fine and that they'd make it to Sioux Falls and that yes, they understood that if he didn't hear from Jody that they made it, there'd be hell to pay.

"Yes, yes, the ditches...we're very aware of the danger…" Claire huffed, but there was a small smile hiding under the sass. "Thanks for the coffee."

"Any time."

"The cookies were good!" she called in the general direction of the kitchen.

"Of course they bloody were…" Dean heard Crowley grumble, and Claire raised an amused eyebrow at Dean, who shrugged.

Sam emerged from the cold a second later, breathing deeply, tossing Baby's keys to Dean, and holding two books up. "These'll probably get you started," he said in a rush and Dean couldn't help but be a little impressed that Sam was willing to part with books from the Bunker library.

Dean drifted off a bit while Sam went over the books with Claire, Cas chiming in occasionally. Kaia was mostly quiet and stood close to Claire, which Dean really didn't blame her for, even if he kind of felt like a dick about it. He'd apologized for the way things had gone down back when they first met, but he had a feeling it'd be awhile before things were entirely good between them. But hey, he and Claire started off that way and now look at them (though he could live without the snarky comments about him being an old man).

Before long, Claire and Kaia were gone again, leaving Sam, Cas, and Dean standing in the doorway, waving awkwardly at taillights.

"I feel like I should've told them to have fun storming the castle," Dean muttered, kicking a bit of gravel that hadn't been caught by the welcome mat.

Sam snorted. "Yeah, well, I think their odds are better than a miracle."

Cas was still looking down the road, as if he could still see their car—and who knew, maybe along with Vulcan hearing, he got Legolas vision. "Does it seem strange that the only hunts we've heard about have been monsters, no demons?"

Dean shrugged. "I dunno, man. Our lives as hunters weren't exactly normal, so maybe this is what it's like for everyone else. Coupla vampires, a rugaru, a wendigo just to spice things up."

Sam ran a hand through his hair. "Crowley did offer to close the Gates of Hell."

"Yeah, but he kinda got distracted by sacrificing himself," Dean said, lowly, though he was sure Crowley could probably hear him anyway.

"You would think we'd have heard _something_ about what's going on in Hell," Cas added. "Granted, our 'grapevine' has severely diminished of late, but Claire and Kaia aren't the only hunters who have been through here or that we hear from regularly."

Dean nodded, thinking of Paul and Viola—two of Mary's contacts that'd been in here last week on their way down to Oklahoma. They hadn't been the first since they opened the joint, and Dean wondered if they were going to turn into the Starbucks of hunter roadhouses ('cept with better coffee and pie and pastries and literally everything). "Yeah, Jody or Donna woulda mentioned it if they were getting swamped with demons."

"Unless they're trying to keep us out of it?" Sam wondered.

Dean considered it. "Nah. Even if they were, they wouldn't keep us in the dark. Even Bobby, Mom, and Jack would give us a heads up." Well, he hoped they would. Last he'd heard, they were up in Maine hunting a kitsune clan, but that'd been before New Years. "And nothing from Rowena?"

Sam shook his head. "Nope. Nothing like that." His pocket vibrated and he pulled out his phone. "Speaking of…"

"Perfect timing. Like magic," Dean said, earning him a bitchface from Sam, who walked out the door to answer the phone in peace. Dean turned back to Cas, hoping to get _someone_ to chuckle with him, but Cas had already returned to the counter. He sighed, tired of this tension, even if he knew he was pretty much entirely responsible for it.

Thursday afternoons could drag until the after-school and work crowd started to trickle in, and so Dean decided to take advantage of the lull.

Cas had taken up residence at one of the stools by the display case and was flipping through a book (or probably reading it and memorizing it with that big angel brain of his); it was one of the battered paperbacks they'd started collecting and stocking in a bookshelf for patrons to read; a few of them were actually donations from some of their regulars who were trying to clean out their own shelves at home.

Even though Cas said everything still tasted like molecules to him, Dean knew that the guy enjoyed simpler, stronger flavors, or at least found them palatable enough to be social. With that in mind, he took one of the paper cups (thankfully, not one of the ones that said Dean's Beans—they'd managed to use all of those up two weeks ago) and a Sharpie from his pocket. He made a few quick lines on the cup and drew an asterisk, then poured in some of their dark roast, no sugar or milk.

Cas peered at the cup when Dean slid it across the counter, his hand poised mid-page turn. Dean waited, his heart in his throat, while Cas saw what he'd written on the cup.

"'Careful, you're extremely hot'," Cas intoned; Dean had crossed out a few choice words in the warning label. "Clever, though I don't know if this is a sustainable marketing strategy. We might get complaints."

Dean rolled his eyes. "No, man, that's not… Never mind. It's stupid."

Cas blinked and looked up. "Oh." His expression shuttered. "Are you sure this was intended for me, then?"

Dean grit his teeth, but he'd earned that. "Cas, look, I know what you think, but…"

"You don't need to explain yourself to me, Dean. Do whatever—or whoever—" Cas actually looked pleased with himself for that one, the snarky bastard, "you wish."

"Cas," Dean pleaded. "I fucked up ok? I get it. I shoulda talked about this with you—with _both_ of you—but I figured after New Years, you woulda given up on me, written me off, and I wouldn't've blamed you, but…" He sighed, taking a moment to marshal his words. "Before all this, I would've just put my head down, ya know? Said it didn't matter what I wanted, said the job was more important than being happy or whatever, but now…"

"What are you saying, Dean?"

"Don't make me choose," he blurted. He swallowed and took a breath before trying again. "That's it: don't make me choose. If I have to, to get you to stay, I will, but...don't make me choose between you."

Cas' expression was inscrutable, but softened eventually. "He means something to you."

"You _both_ do." Dean ran a hand over his face. "Shit, Cas, not gonna lie, this is _not_ where I thought my life was heading, not in a million years, but, yeah. It's fucked up and makes no sense, I know, but it kinda makes a shit-ton of sense, too—"

"Alright."

Dean's eyes snapped up to meet Cas'. "'Alright'? That's it?" Sonofa _bitch_. Bare your fucking heart to a guy and all he gives you is an 'alright'? Fucking angels.

"Was there something else I was supposed to say?" Cas asked, but Dean was pretty sure his eyes were laughing. "Forgive me if my studies of human relationships haven't prepared me for this situation…"

"Yeah, _alright_ , you asshole, I get it." Dean let himself exhale and grin a little. "So, we good?"

"Of course, Dean."

Before he could second guess himself, Dean grabbed Cas by the hand and started to pull him towards the door, thankful that Baby was parked in a fairly secluded spot out back. Cas looked mildly surprised but pleased, if the crinkles around his eyes were any indication.

"Crowley!" Dean called out. "Watch the register!"

"I'm _busy_!"

"Yes, well so are we," Cas answered and Dean grinned.

 

 

🍪 ☕ 🥧

 

 

“— and for the third cupcake, I want it to be strawberry, with strawberry frosting and chocolate filling and, like, make the frosting look like a rose.” Greg Miller, the overly-particular young man, was a regular at the cafe, and usually only bought coffee and a muffin on his way to work at the grocer’s. He also happened to be the sixth person to place an order that day — with Valentine’s Day nearly upon them, and Dean’s being the closest to a bakery in town, they’d been getting orders since the first of February — but his was certainly the most specific.

Crowley nodded along and took notes, but most of his attention was elsewhere. Last night’s after work entertainment had been particularly enthusiastic, likely due to Castiel’s participation, and it was far more pleasant to dwell upon those memories than listen to Greg Miller. Anyone with a functioning libido would surely agree.

After cupcake number five, Greg finally paused long enough for Crowley to politely interrupt. “Beg pardon, but how much had you planned to spend on your order? Not to discourage you, but you’re somewhere in the area of forty dollars already, possibly higher; I haven’t priced out all your extras.”

“Forty bucks? For cupcakes?!”

“Yes, well, I can’t exactly make a single strawberry cupcake, now can I? You’re asking me to bake at least five different cupcakes with five different fillings and five different flavoured frostings, plus all of your embellishments. Perhaps you might consider consolidating your flavours a bit. If you could settle on, say, two flavours, I might be able to bring the price down for you.”

After a bit of discussion, Greg opted for six cupcakes, half strawberry filled with chocolate and half vanilla filled with strawberry. When Crowley quoted him a price of eighteen dollars, Greg didn’t even flinch. “Oh my god, thank you. My girlfriend is gonna love this.”

It wasn’t until the fellow was out the door that Cas spoke up. “Since when do we charge by the flavour?”

“Since loverboy decided that his honeybunch needed a half dozen different cupcakes when I’m already swamped for Valentine’s Day.” From the corner table, Sam said something that made Rowena laugh. Crowley took a deep breath before continuing. “It’s not like I can bake it all ahead of time either. I’m going to be here all night getting all their orders made as it is. I don’t need something out of _Cupcake Wars_ complicating matters. Besides, who even needs six different flavours of cupcakes?”

“He just wanted to share his love in a visible way. One would think you might understand the need to give something tangible to share a feeling you can’t verbalize.”

“I understand perfectly, and I counter, _six different bloody flavours!_ ”

Dean finished with the last customer and stepped over to the tea station where Cas and Crowley were talking. “Six flavours of what?”

Crowley was saved from having to explain when the door opened again to admit the archangel-only-slightly-less-annoying-than-Lucifer, Gabriel. Dressed in business casual, blazer over jeans and a blue shirt, His Royal Awfulness made a beeline straight for the counter.

“Castiel! Have I told you lately that you’re my favourite sibling?”

Cas grabbed a cloth and got to work wiping down the tea station. “What do you want, Gabriel?”

“No 'hi, how are you?' No 'how’s Heaven?' Just 'what do you want?' I’m not feeling the love here. Where’s your Valentine’s Day spirit?” Gabriel was making no effort to lower his voice and customers were starting to take notice, including the entire ladies’ book club by the front window.

Without looking up from his cleaning, Cas replied, “It’s not Valentine’s Day yet and you want something, so what is it?”

“Straight to the point. I can respect that.” Gabriel snapped his fingers and the customers all stopped moving. “The thing is, Heaven…it’s kinda boring. The only angels left up there are total sticks in the mud, and apparently talking to the human souls is 'detrimental to their continued adjustment' whatever that means.”

“Hey, quit messin’ with my customers, jackass,” Dean protested, looking dubiously around the shop.

Cas tossed the cloth into the sink behind him as he spoke. “It means you’d interrupt their perfect memories, which would make it harder to keep them contained.”

“Whatever.” Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Please, Cas, come save me from eternal boredom. I tried telling Naomi that I should go make sure Hell isn’t misbehaving or whatever, and she said there hasn’t even been a single demon sighting in months. _Months!_ Help me, Obi-Wan Castiel, you’re my only hope!”

“I’m sorry, Gabriel, but I’m not going back. If there’s some way I can help from here, I’m all ears, but I’ve made my choice and it’s not Heaven.”

“Look, just ‘cause you’ve gone native doesn’t mean you can’t visit here and there. It’s not like you pulled an Anna or anything.”

“Hold on, back it up a wee bit,” said Rowena, apparently not frozen like the rest of the customers. “First of all, it’s lovely to see you again, dearie. We should go out for a drink. Second, would you mind terribly telling the rest of us why on earth either of you are needed in the hereafter?”

“Hey, hot stuff.” Gabriel winked at Rowena and fired a pair of finger guns. “Long story short, there’s not enough of us upstairs, and we’re the Energizers that keep the lights on. I can’t stick around here long or else everything’ll fall apart up there.”

Crowley tried to keep out of the whole business, staying quiet, not drawing attention to himself, and pondering the implications of Castiel “pulling an Anna”, but sometimes it was simply too difficult to ignore idiocy. “ _You’re_ keeping the lights on. You. Angels. And why, pray tell, are you not making use of the souls? There must be billions of them up there, each one with practically immeasurable power.”

As he’d feared, Gabriel rounded on him with squared shoulders and blazing eyes. “Yes, you demonic ass, we’re using the souls. Each soul powers their own personal heaven, but someone’s still gotta power the whole matrix that ties ‘em all together.”

While Crowley thought through and discarded ideas, hoping Heaven’s last archangel would refrain from smiting him, his mother spoke up again. “You mean to tell me, the fortunate souls who escape damnation, who’ve earned their eternal peace, are stuck in solitary forever? And their own souls are what powers this prison? Well, I think I’ve found your problem.”

“What? No. It’s not like that.” Gabriel thankfully stopped glaring at Crowley to answer Rowena. “We just let them experience their best memories over and over as if each time is the first. For…eternity. Someone help me out here.”

“Oh no, you’re doing _just_ fine,” replied Dean, taking advantage of the unexpected break to rearrange the pastry case.

Sam laid a hand on Rowena’s. “I’ve been there, and yeah, that’s what it’s like. You’re in one of your best memories like the first time it happened, and unless something disturbs you, you have no idea there’s anything different.”

Gabriel narrowed his eyes at their hands, but nodded. There was drama lurking there, plain to see, and Crowley only hoped it wouldn’t result in property damage.

Squeezing Sam’s hand, Rowena turned a particularly anguished expression on Gabriel. “That’s— och, but that’s _terrible!_ What if your best memory is hardly anything better than the rest of your miserable life? That would mean you’d’ve endured a lifetime of misery to be rewarded with more of the same. How is that any better than Hell? At least they’re honest about it.”

“They’re right, Gabriel,” said Cas. “Heaven certainly isn’t perfect and it’s overdue for remodeling.”

“Okay…but how does that help me?” said Gabriel.

Crowley took a deep, unnecessary breath and sighed. “Because, you sugar-coated lackwit, your current design is highly inefficient. The solution is to get rid of the bloody matrix. Let the souls intermingle in a common area powered by their own energies. You might have to leave a few of them in their own little corners, but I’d imagine most of them would play nice and would probably learn to create their own spaces without any expenditure of energy from you and yours. Eventually, you’d only need to keep the peace.”

Five pairs of eyes regarded him with amazement, though it only took a moment before Gabriel scoffed. “But…that’s _insane!_ You know the standards to get into Heaven are ridiculously low. We couldn’t possibly let everyone interact. Imagine the chaos!”

“I don’t think you’re giving humans enough credit,” Cas countered. “I think it could work if you do it slowly. Introduce a few people at a time and see how it goes.”

Still holding Rowena’s hand, Sam cleared his throat. “Actually, I think I know exactly who you should start with. There’s a guy up there who’s already figured out how things work and he’s been visiting all sorts of other peoples’ heavens. If anyone can help you out, it’s Ash.”

“And Bobby Singer,” said Dean. “The guy organized practically every hunter in the country. I can’t imagine anyone else’d do a better job organizing Heaven.”

“You mean Heaven’s two biggest troublemakers.” Gabriel sighed and threw up his hands. “Fine. It can’t be worse than the current fiasco.”

“So, if that’s taken care of, mind fixing whatever the fuck you did to my customers?”

“What? Oh, they’re fine. I just pulled us out of time for a moment.”

“Okay, then put us back, asshat.”

“Sheesh, so touchy.” With a snap of Gabriel’s fingers, the background chatter resumed, the customers continuing exactly where they’d left off before they were frozen. “Now, with that taken care of…” He waggled his eyebrows at Sam and Rowena. “I can’t stick around just yet, but if this works, I foresee a great deal of spare time in my future and I can think of all sorts of ways to fill it, if you know what I mean.”

Rowena patted Sam’s hand with her free hand and gave Gabriel a sly smile. “I most certainly do, and I assure you, I have a _very_ creative imagination.”

Sam, for his part, chuckled and shook his head. “Go fix Heaven, Gabriel. We’ll have cookies and hot chocolate for you when you come back.”

“Now that’s an offer I can get behind. Toss in a couple X-rated prayers while I’m gone?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“Alright, alright, I get it. See ya later, hot and hotter.” He turned to leave, but stopped before taking a step. “Oh, and heads up, the book club ladies over yonder are gonna come looking for tea and scones once I’m gone.”

Inevitably, everyone turned to look at said book club save for Crowley, who had overheard fragments of their excited tittering while attempting to pay attention to the conversation at hand — something about an OT3. While heads were turned, Gabriel dashed outside, presumably disappearing before the door swung shut.

“Such a drama queen,” said Dean, rolling his eyes as he filled the kettle.

“Well,” said Crowley, “as entertaining as this has been, I have chocolate-covered cheesecake bites to prepare before tomorrow, as well as the usual array of sweeties. Say hello to the book club ladies for me, would you?”

Dean waved him off. “Do what you gotta do, man. I’ll be back to make tarts once it quiets down again.”

At that moment, all eight book club ladies stood and descended en masse upon the counter. Crowley took that as his cue to retreat. He really did have an order of chocolate-covered cheesecake bites to prepare, but it could wait. Instead, he started sketching cupcakes for Greg Miller’s sweetheart. It probably wasn’t the best use of his time, but he’d already been planning to make simple chocolates to top the cupcakes in the display case later, so it wouldn’t take much more to choose specific designs to suit the overly-romantic couple. The idea of surprising them was somehow appealing.

As usual, the moment he was out of the room, people started talking, as if they forgot all over again that he could hear every word. Dean and Cas — generally his first choice in all things — were initially busy with the book club, so he opted to listen to his mother and her paramour instead. After only a moment, he began to question his choices.

“I don’t see the problem here. He’s eager — enthusiastic even — and he seems to fancy the both of us. I’ve already given him a bit of a test run. Between the three of us, we could have a quality shag.”

“What? No! I— I’m not interested in Gabriel in that way, or any guy for that matter.”

Rowena gave an audible huff. “Well, I didn’t say you’d be the one in the middle of that particular sandwich, now did I?”

It’s possible Crowley could have felt more uncomfortable, but at that moment he couldn’t recall a particular instance. He sketched out cupcakes with various chocolate toppers, attempting to tune out the conversation he wished he’d never heard in the first place. It was possibly the first time he wished he didn’t have such hellishly good hearing.

“Look, Rowena, I’m just— that’s not something I can give you. If you want something more open, I won’t judge you and I certainly can’t stop you, but I can’t be a part of it. I’m sure Gabriel would be fine with it, so…if that’s what you want, I won’t stand in your way. Just try not to rub it in my face when you’re here.”

Bloody stupid moose. Ignoring the little voice that wanted to remind him that he’d said something similar to Dean, Crowley silently cursed Sam for abandoning the field of battle and ceding victory to Gabriel without a fight.

“‘Try not to—’ You bloody dunderheid, for the love of— you’re such a numpty! I’ll nae be givin’ up everything we’ve managed to cobble together for the sake of a bit of the how’s your father, archangel or no. I only thought it’d be a mite fun for the both of us, but if you’re not feeling it, well then, pretend I never said a word.”

Setting aside his sketches, Crowley double-checked he was alone before smiling. While he intellectually knew his mother had made changes in her life, it was quite another thing to see — or rather, hear — the results play out. The old Rowena would never have sacrificed so much as a single night of entertainment for something so pedestrian as another person’s feelings.

The ad break on the radio finally ended, the charity PSA giving way to Etta Jones singing “At Last”. Crowley paused to turn up the volume before going to sort through the chocolate moulds. He really didn’t want to listen while the lovebirds sorted out their tiff, so it was easier to focus on the incomparable Ms. Jones singing about finally finding her happily ever after.

Laying the moulds out on the table, he then filled a pot with water and set it to boil while he gathered the chocolate wafers he’d need. If he was making chocolates for anyone whose opinion he cared about, he’d have used a quality chocolate and tempered it for a proper snap, but for the decorations on cupcakes, it really didn’t matter. Actively ignoring whatever his mother was saying, Crowley hummed along with the radio and poured pre-coloured chocolate into a metal bowl.

He wasn’t trying to listen to anyone. Most of the time, Crowley would cheerfully eavesdrop on anyone careless enough to talk where he could hear them, but for once he was legitimately minding his own business when he overheard something that was impossible to ignore.

“Dean, I know what Gabriel said, but I’m not ‘pulling an Anna’, even if his words suggested that I might have considered it, which I haven’t.”

Wooden spoon in hand, Crowley froze, the red-coloured discs of white chocolate slowly puddling in the bowl heating over the boiling water. He hadn’t met Anna, but everyone in Hell’s upper echelons at the time had known who and what she was. Stirring the chocolate wafers, Crowley tuned out everything else to listen for Dean’s quiet response.

“Dude, I know you’re not gonna tear out your grace to go be a baby, but hear me out. If Gabriel’s onto something, if you’ve ever considered doing the whole human thing, I know your experience with what Metatron did was pretty fuckin’ awful, but I also know a lotta that was my fault.”

Dean clearly wasn’t done, but Cas interrupted, “No, Dean, it’s—”

“Lemme finish. I was trying to protect Sammy, but I could’ve told Gadreel to shove it and we’ll never know what would’ve happened if I had, but I do know that doing what he said meant your experience as a human kinda sucked. All I wanted to say is that if you ever felt like you wanna stick your grace in a jar and hang up the halo, I’d be there with pizza, beer, and a goddamn room in the bunker.”

“But…wouldn’t you be upset? If I gave up my grace, I’d be powerless.”

“Cas, we’re retired. When was the last time you used your grace for anything more than putting away the inventory? And if something were to attack us, it ain’t like we’re helpless. There’s four of us here — five if you count Rowena — and any one of us could easily fend off a monster or two if something happened to find us. I don’t give a fuck about powers. Besides, your grace, your choice, right?”

Crowley strained his ears to hear Castiel’s response, but the only sounds were the boiling water in the kettle and the other conversations which Crowley was trying so desperately to ignore. It wasn’t until the song on the radio finished that Cas replied, “Thank you, Dean. I currently have no plan to extract my grace again, but I appreciate knowing that I have your support.”

Though Crowley kept listening, the conversation turned to more mundane matters before they were interrupted by a customer. With a sigh, Crowley spooned the melted chocolate into the plastic moulds and tried not to think about why Dean’s words had mattered so much to him.

 

 

🍩 🍵 🍰

 

 

Dean did have a point: Castiel was hardly using his grace for anything more impressive than manual labor and the occasional healing. But while his brush with humanity had been miserable for a number of reasons, the emptiness he'd felt at missing the core of himself had been far worse than the economic hardships, and was probably tied with the loneliness and feelings of abandonment. He wondered if it were different for a demon, who might be more inclined to become human again, having once been before. Even Anna's human childhood had been marked with dark periods that doctors had labeled psychosis, but were really glimpses into her angelhood. Being an angel wasn't just about his powers: it was _him_.

Of course, there was no guarantee that he wouldn't change his mind some day, but for now he was content in knowing that whatever he decided, he had a place here and the support of his loved ones.

Dean smiled at him and Castiel wished desperately for a moment that they were not in public. The past few days had been...educational, to say the least, and Castiel was an eager student. When Dean moved away, humming to himself as he fetched a towel to wipe down tables, Castiel snapped his eyes to the register, where one of the women from the book club was waiting. Her cheeks were tinged pink, even though the temperature of the café was a perfectly reasonable seventy degrees.

"Can I help you? It's Heather, right?"

"Um, yes," Heather squeaked. Her eyes darted between Dean and Cas and her cheeks flushed even darker red.

Castiel felt his stomach sink as he realized she must have heard enough of their conversation to either have concerns about its decidedly supernatural references, or to feel embarrassed about witnessing what was obviously a private conversation. (He knew, thankfully, that it was not in regards to the homosexual nature of their relationship—even if he knew Dean would sputter at hearing it called in such bald terms; at least two of the women in the book club were a couple and were treated as warmly as anyone else. He would never understand how his Father's words had been twisted so horribly by humans over the years, but at least the patrons of the café seemed to have gotten the right message.)

"What can I get you?"

"Um, medium half-decaf vanilla with soy?" Heather rushed out. "Please?"

"Of course." He entered the item into the register and swiped her card just as Dean returned. "Medium half-decaf vanilla with soy, Dean," he said, spinning the touchscreen so Heather could sign.

"Comin' right up." Dean gave him a slight hip-check on the way by, and while he might have missed Heather's further transformation into a strawberry, Castiel certainly did not.

"We can bring it over to the table," he informed her.

"Oh, ok," she nodded and scurried away to rejoin her group.

Dean frowned, watching her, then turned to Cas and asked lowly, "What was all that about?" He waggled his eyebrows. "Someone got a crush on the devastatingly handsome barista?"

Cas gave Dean an unamused look. "Yes, but I don't think it's her."

Dean chuckled and Cas marveled at how quickly things had changed, how not that long ago, Cas would never have so much as hinted in this regard, and Dean certainly would not have laughed.

Closing the fridge with the soy milk back in place, Dean shrugged. "Yeah, well, can you blame me?"

"There's no good way for me to answer that without sounding astoundingly vain."

"And we wouldn't want that, would we, darling?" Crowley added, bringing with him a well-ladened tray of chocolate-covered treats. He nodded at the drink in Dean's hand. "Shouldn't you stop mooning over each other and deliver that before it goes cold and we ruin our perfect Yelp rating?"

"Bossy."

Crowley threw him a wink. "You love it."

"Not in _my_ café, where _I'm_ the boss..."

"Dean," Cas sighed. "Give her the coffee."

"Yeah, alright." Dean saluted with his free hand, then walked off towards the group of women.

Crowley set down his tray and looked at Cas with envious approval. "I would dearly love to know how you managed that little trick. Didn't think it was possible."

Cas merely smirked. "There are more things in heaven and earth, Crowley, than are dreamt of in your philosophies, as I believe the saying goes."

"Really, you're going to quote the Bard at me? Who _are_ you, Castiel?" Opening up the display case, Crowley began arranging the confections. "You do know how that play ends, don't you?"

"I believe we're past that." Castiel looked around the café, thinking of what it took to get them here. "At least, I have to hope we are."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean's terrible flirting techniques taken from [this post](https://love.tumblr.com/post/176051660507).
> 
> (Well, I say terrible... But they do work...)


	7. Chapter 7

"Here ya go, Ingrid." Dean put the teapot, mug, and other tea-things on a tray for her to make carrying easier. Back when the book club first started meeting here, Ingrid had simply bought a cup of tea at a time, but Cas had suggested a teapot once, given how long the club stuck around and chatted, and Ingrid had never looked back. He brushed his hands off on his jeans, even though they weren't dirty, and started to ring her up. "Oh hey, I saw Eva in here last week—barely recognized her with the short hair!"

Ingrid fingered her wallet and gave an nervous smile. "Oh, uh, Eva's going by Evan now."

Dean's brain took a second to process as he was punching in items in the register, but when what the teenager's mom said sunk in, he looked up. "Oh!"

Ingrid's eyes grew a little wider and he realized what his response probably sounded like.

"That's awesome!" He grinned and her shoulders relaxed. "Good for...him?"

Ingrid nodded, and her expression warmed up considerably. "I still mess up sometimes—habit, you know—and he's just been so nervous about it all. Luckily all his friends have been supportive. They even went with him to get his hair cut and pick out new clothes."

Taking the cash from her, he popped open the register and quickly made change. "Those are some awesome friends." He handed back a few dollars and coins, which she dropped into the tip jar, even if it was way too much for what she paid. As she gathered up the tray, he said, "Hey, uh, tell Evan congrats from us."

"I will!"

Tray in hand, she walked over to the three small tables the book club had pushed together, taking a seat between Heather and...Cynthia? No— _Caroline_. Cynthia was the _other_ one with the long blond hair. For some reason, he always messed up those two's names, even though he could tell you what their jobs were, what their significant others' names were, and that Caroline had a big dog with floppy ears named Sam, which Dean thought was all manner of hilarious. (His brother didn't think it was funny, and Caroline had seemed almost mortified when the conversation had come up in front of human-Sam).

Oddly, what he didn't know was what books they were into, even though he'd asked once or twice, just making conversation. He always got some answer like, "Oh, we're in between books right now. Trying to decide on the next one," or "It's kind of an obscure one...this French writer…" The first one might have been plausible once or twice, but the latter was the same level of bullshit Sam gave when he was hiding something, but Dean didn't press it, even if he found the whole thing fishy.

"Are you sure you really want to know?" Crowley had asked once when he'd mentioned it over a stand mixer full of dough.

"Whaddya mean? Wait, do _you_ know? You been listening in?"

Crowley had sighed. "I do have the capacity of tuning out conversations that are none of my business."

"When the occasion suits you," Dean'd grumbled.

"The _point_ is, no, I do not know what they've been reading, as it's no concern of mine, but given how popular _Fifty Shades_ was for a time with a certain demographic—though I sincerely hope our patrons would have better taste in their erotica than that tripe…"

Dean had noped out of the rest of that conversation quickly after that. It wasn't that he was a prude—God himself had had to comment on his extensive porn collection…—but somehow he'd mentally put all the book club ladies, regardless of age, in roughly the same category as Jody, as in "mom/sister friend you don't want to think about in _that_ way".

Taking a moment, Dean leaned against the counter, surveying his domain. The place was really coming together—had been for months, now. Sam was tapping away at his laptop, the Jankowskis were just settling into their table while Cas brought them their drinks and pastries, the book club was getting off to a raucous start (as usual), Crowley was baking away—

No, Crowley was coming out of the kitchen, clutching a notebook, on which Dean could see Cas' precise handwriting.

"And exactly _what_ is the meaning of this?" Crowley hissed, brandishing the fluttering pages.

Cas stilled as he returned and saw what was in Crowley's hand. "Just some notes?"

Dean frowned, looking between the two of them. "Uh...guys? What the—"

"Just some _notes_?" Crowley thrust the notebook into Dean's hand.

While Sam handled most of the bookkeeping, Cas often helped; apparently angel brains were good at calculating out supplies and costs, though he also kept the notebook for when he wanted to run an idea by Dean (after Dean had told him that getting a fifteen-minute long lecture on appropriate beverage pricing and new marketing suggestions at 7 a.m. just wasn't gonna work for his sad little human brain, and if Cas could just write it down, buddy, that'd be great). And from what Dean could see, that was all that was on the page: new seasonal tea blends, which coffees he wanted to rotate out of the menu or add back on, and—

Oh.

"A red eye coffee?" Crowley nearly spat. " _Red eye_?"

Dean held out a hand. "Dude, keep it down." Before Crowley could protest, he ushered them into the kitchen, away from the general public.

"It's a popular drink," Cas argued. "And now that the weather is turning, the construction crews have been coming in early in the morning, and—"

"Oh, it's for the _construction crews_ ," Crowley snorted. "Well, by all means, _Feathers_ , let's not forget _them_!"

Fearing that everything was finally crumbling down, Dean situated himself between them. "Look, Crowley—"

"I'm sorry."

Crowley and Dean both paused and turned to Cas.

"I hadn't meant anything by it—I was merely thinking of stronger beverages to offer. I should have considered how that could come across." Cas shrugged. "It was insensitive, and I apologize."

Dean couldn't believe it. Sure, they'd all been getting along great lately (more than great, if you caught his drift, wink wink nudge nudge and all that), but maybe there was a small part of him that'd figured this wouldn't last. It wasn't like any of them had ever been poster children for healthy relationships.

Crowley didn't respond for a moment and just regarded Cas, but he seemed mollified by the apology. "I suppose," he said, letting his posture loosen, "I may have overreacted."

"You...wait, what?"

Unfortunately, that earned him unamused looks from both of them, and so Dean took a step back, and then another, until he was back in the front of the café, where it was safer. He busied himself organizing utensils or whatever while Cas and Crowley hashed it out back there—in a civilized manner, if the tones of their voices were anything to go by.

"Dean!" Crowley called after a few minutes. "How do you feel about adding angel food cake to our menu?"

He huffed a laugh, relieved at the familiar snark. "Your funeral!"

"I will smite you," Cas added over his shoulder as he entered.

"You know I love the rough stuff, Snuggles."

Cas rolled his eyes, and Dean put a hand on his shoulder, rubbing a small circle with his thumb.

"I—" Whatever Dean was about to say flew from his tongue as the lights cut out. All the chatter in the café ended, and the only sound was a soft scraping of chairs as the patrons looked around. "The fuck—"

"Bloody hell." Crowley joined them, carrying a whisk. "This better not last—"

"Uh, Dean?" The sound of Sam's voice jerked Dean's attention back, as did Cas' quick departure from his side.

Outside the windows was a crowd of people, staring in. With black eyes.

"Oh shit…."

Cas already had his angel blade, and Dean reached under the counter to trip the secret panel he'd installed to hide his weapons behind. (He may have been retired, but he wasn't _dead_ , and he wasn't planning on _that_ for a while yet.) Barely looking, he tossed Ruby's knife to Sam, who caught it effortlessly, while Dean took another angel blade for himself.

"Crowley, the salt!" Dean barked, even though he suspected that was where Crowley had gone anyway, since he wasn't behind him anymore. "Sam, let's get these people to the storeroom."

The storeroom was way too small for all these people, but it was the only plan he had right now...

Except it finally dawned on him that these patrons were far less panicked than they should be, given the creepy asshats staring in on them and the arsenal the owners of this little American café were arming themselves with.

Crowley emerged again with two bags of salt, and before Dean could help, Cynthia and Heather were grabbing them from him and pouring lines by the windows and doors. Ingrid was with the Jankowskis and was...drawing a Devil's Trap on the floor with a tube of lipstick? And Mrs. Jankowski was giving pointers while Mr. Jankowski stood guard?

_What. The. Hell._

Caroline came over to them with two other members of the book club. "What can we do?"

Dean gaped. "You...you _know_?"

And then he noticed the books they were holding: _Jus in Bello_ by Carver Edlund.

"Well…" Caroline shrugged.

"You gotta be fucking _kidding_ me…"

"Now is not the time, Dean," Cas said, still studying the demons outside. Across the café, Sam was with the other patrons, blocking them from the windows.

"Agreed. Pressing matters, et cetera," Crowley added.

"Right." Marshal the troops. Except they weren't troops, and just because they'd read the books, that didn't make them hunters, and he'd be damned before he let his patrons get hurt because some black-eyed sonsofbitches had a bone to pick with him. "Who are they? We know what they want?"

As if on cue, a demon stepped forward from the crowd, though they stopped a few feet from the main door. Dean had never been more grateful they'd managed to figure out wards to keep all demons out with the exception of those on their invite list—which was exactly one demon long. But they hadn't been able to test the theory until now…

The demon grinned and with a flick of their wrist, the door flew open, but out to the sidewalk, leaving the fresh salt line untouched. They stepped forward and for half a second, with his heart in his throat, Dean thought they were going to cross over the threshold. But they didn't. Instead, they stopped and smiled, and though Dean had never seen this face before in his life, there was something familiar in that expression…

"Hello, boys. Lovely to see you again after all this time."

It was Sam who said the name on the tips of all their tongues.

"Bela."

 

 

🍪 ☕ 🥧

 

 

She’d gotten herself a new meatsuit, of course. Between getting torn open by hellhounds and being tortured into a demon, procuring a new body was the first task for any new demon upon leaving Hell for the first time, so Crowley wasn’t surprised to see Bela with a different face so much as he was to see her at all. Last he’d seen Bela, she’d been in a highly warded cell for the crime of being most likely to have him assassinated. (Anyone with that sort of intelligence and ambition, combined with a scathing resentment towards his part in her death, was bound to be a danger to him.) Obviously, that was a powerful selling feature to someone.

Tall and broad with silver hair, wearing an unbuttoned bespoke suit, her new body could have walked into any boardroom and commanded instant respect. She cocked a hip provocatively, apparently not even bothering to access her host body’s muscle memories. “Miss me?”

“We’re out, Bela,” said Dean, angel blade held non-threateningly at his side. “We’re no threat to whatever shit you’ve got planned. Just take your demons and leave our town and I promise we won’t interfere.”

“You mean like when you didn’t interfere and I went to Hell? Thanks, but no thanks. It just so happens, I’m not here for you at all.”

Putting it off any longer could only have wasted everyone’s time. “Bela, darling. So nice to see you out and about. My compliments on the suit. Which Fortune 500 is missing their most soiled member, I wonder?”

“You like it? He was so confident, so sure of himself, that he’d never get caught.” She tapped the side of her stolen head. “I think he’s beginning to wish he’d only had to deal with a courtroom.”

“Oh, I have every confidence you’ll convince him of that.”

Dean broke in before she could respond. “You _know_ her?”

“Hell, crossroads, et cetera. I’ll explain later,” Crowley replied.

“Quite. So, we’ve dispensed with the pleasantries then, yes? Good.” Unable to enter the building, she clasped her hands in front of her and leaned forward so she was almost pressed against the spell keeping her out. “You’re standing in my way, Crowley.”

“I’ve been rather decidedly _out_ of the way for over two years, sweetheart. I’m only in your way if you’ve put me there.”

Bela smiled thinly. “Despite your numerous — and I do mean numerous — failings, you somehow have a small devoted following, due to all other legitimate claimants to the throne being dead. In order to cement my position, I need only eliminate you.”

“But I don’t give a damn about the throne. You want it? It’s yours.” Crowley raised his voice so the assembled demons could be certain he was speaking to them. “You hear that, you incompetent loathsome sycophants? I don’t want to be your king. I abdicate, which, for the intellectually challenged, means I give up the throne and I promise I will never be allowed to rule again.”

“Doesn’t matter. You know some of them will never get on board until all of the alternatives are out of the picture.” She directed her expensive pearly white smile toward Sam and Dean. “So, let me make you an offer. Give me Crowley and I won’t have your entire little town slaughtered.”

“Look, there’s gotta be another way,” replied Dean.

Cas added, “We’re not handing him over.”

It had been a year of many changes, and Crowley liked to think he was in a much better place than before he died, but all the same, he was still surprised to hear anyone leap to his defense. More surprising still was Sam, who said, “Anyone who wants to rule Hell needs to be able to maintain order when things get tough. If you can’t get them all to fall in line now, killing Crowley isn’t going to fix things.”

Shaking her head, Bela sighed. “I had hoped you would cooperate.” She turned to address the mob of demons. “Search the town. Bring me the head of each household, and I don’t mean literal heads.”

While Bela was distracted, Mrs. Jankowski, of all people, shuffled over next to Crowley and indicated that he should lean over so she could whisper in his ear, “Don’t worry about the townsfolk. We demon-proofed our homes ages ago.” She reached up and patted Crowley’s shoulder. “You’re a good lad, but don’t you even think about it.”

“Er, right then.” Crowley wasn’t sure whether to be more shocked by the townspeople being protected against demons or the little old lady calling him a good lad, but there was no time to dwell on either. “Thank you, Mrs. Jankowski.”

She smiled warmly and nodded before returning to where the other customers were flipping through the pages of their _Supernatural_ books. Her husband, uninterested in the books, was busy pulling shotgun shells from his pockets and lining them up on the table.

Dean, Cas, and Sam already had their heads together, exchanging and discarding ideas Crowley had already tossed out. The three of them together like old times, two brothers and their angel fighting to save the world from the things that go bump in the night. Crowley had been fooling himself before, to think he’d had a place in that trio. They’d all come so far since then.

Checking to make sure Bela was still supervising her black-eyed half wits, he interrupted Dean’s newest plan. “While I admire your determination, it’s not going to work. Yes, we’re safe in here, though for how long, we don’t know. The locals know your secrets and they’ve safeguarded their homes —” They all breathed a sigh of relief at that. " — but again, we don’t know how long that’ll hold, not to mention there might’ve been some few stragglers out in the streets. We need to get rid of the demons and there’s too many to fight, under-equipped as we are.”

Their circle immediately expanded to include him. Dean tapped his angel blade against his leg. “You’re not gonna do something stupid, are you? ‘Cause if you think you’re going out there—”

“Of course not,” Crowley replied. “I believe you made me promise to check in with you before doing such a thing, and I’m quite certain you have no intention of allowing me to set one foot outside of this café while the streets are teeming with demons.”

Cas scowled. “Then what the fuck do we do?”

Dean raised an eyebrow at the invective and smirked.

Crowley’s mind had been hard at work sorting through the possibilities, but he kept coming back to the same thing. It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about it before, though he certainly hadn’t planned on having an audience.

“For the moment, we buy time.” Crowley raised his voice. “Oi, Lugosi! There’s more than one way to take me off the board. Bring me a syringe and I’ll ensure the rabble rousers will want nothing to do with me.”

Predictably, it was Dean who objected. “I thought you said you weren’t gonna do anything stupid!”

“How will a syringe get you out of my way?” asked Bela, obviously intrigued.

Crowley plastered on his best salesman’s smile. “By the time we’re done, not a single one of them will think me fit to rule. I won’t be in any way capable of using the power you’ve amassed, let alone have any hope of taking it from you.”

Just then, one of the demons sent to gather townsfolk came back empty-handed and cringing. “Your Majesty?” he said, shrinking in on himself, as if to hide from Bela’s imminent wrath. “I’m sorry, Sir. Ma’am! Uh… Your Majesty? But, uh, there’s no one outside but us, and the ones inside are hiding behind wards. We can’t get any of them and they managed to exorcise Carl.”

Drawing a hand down over her face, Bela took a deep breath and smiled the fragile sort of smile that most often led to a breakdown or a bloody massacre. “Yes, well, everyone hates Carl. No real loss there. Never mind that, I need you to go get me a crossroads demon.”

He practically nodded his head off his shoulders and scurried off, leaving Bela to sigh and shake her stolen head. “Idiots. Alright, Crowley, I’m listening.”

Despite the fact that his stomach was attempting to tie itself into knots, Crowley grinned. “It’ll take hours, but by the end, they’ll want nothing to do with me. Moose, I hope you still know how to cure a demon.”

Fortunately, Sam remembered exactly how to cure a demon, and though it took some doing to sell Bela on the process, she appeared to thoroughly enjoy the notion of Crowley losing all his powers. Dean, on the other hand, had his concerns, and given what Moose went through in the aftermath of the trials to close the gates of Hell, Crowley couldn’t blame him for worrying. Thus, Dean underwent a crash course in demon purification.

While Dean was off preparing with Sam, Castiel drew a Devil’s Trap in chalk in the middle of the room and placed a chair in the center. The demons outside had gathered around to watch, but recoiled once Cas began to consecrate the room.

Bela quirked an eyebrow. “There was no mention of hallowed ground. Is all this really necessary?”

Crowley calmly walked into the Devil’s Trap and sat in the chair, ignoring three hundred years of survival instincts screaming at him. “You would presume to question an angel on his knowledge of a purification ritual?”

“Demons are made weaker on hallowed ground, which lessens the resistance to the demon cure.” Cas didn’t even look up from where he was splashing holy water, taking obvious care not to get any on the chalk lines.

In his position as King of the Crossroads and later as King of Hell, it hadn’t bothered him to walk on holy ground. Sure, there was some slight resistance, but nothing terribly inconvenient. Having given up both of those titles — and the power that came with them — he felt it the moment Castiel finished consecrating the room.

Bela merely sighed. “Fine, but don’t be all day about it. If you don’t get going soon, there could be some property damage out here which might happen to disable some of those lovely wards protecting your neighbours.”

“The cure takes eight hours,” said Castiel as he stalked over to the doorway, gorgeous blue eyes blazing grace-bright, “so I suggest you get comfortable, because if anyone hurts any of our people, we’re going to find out just how many demons I can smite on my way to the one who did the hurting.”

It was all a bluff, of course — Cas hadn’t been able to handle a mob of demons in years — but Bela didn’t know that. Though she did a lovely job of keeping her face under control, it was rather satisfying to see the little twitch as she fought the urge to back away. “I’ve waited over a decade to watch Crowley’s downfall. I can wait eight more hours.”

“Good, ‘cause there’s no rushing this,” said Dean, stepping out of the kitchen with a syringe in his hand. Moving to stand between Crowley and the door, he set his free hand on Crowley’s shoulder and leaned in to whisper, “You’re absolutely sure about this? Ain’t exactly easy to go back if you change your mind.”

Crowley closed his eyes and took a deep breath before meeting Dean’s gaze. “I’m certain. The only reason to remain a demon would be for the immortality, and that means nothing if you can’t share it. I’ve been considering it for some time now. I suppose, on some level, I’m glad this has forced my hand, or I might have continued to consider it for the next decade or so.”

Dean grinned crookedly and filled the syringe with his own purified blood. “You just wanted to wait until I was as old as that body of yours. Well, tough shit, close enough.”

There was nothing holding Crowley in the chair, and while the flimsy Devil's Trap kept him contained, he could have easily overpowered Dean and made him scuff the chalk lines. A part of him would once have screamed in outrage at the thought of losing the power for which he had fought so hard.

“Bugger that,” said Crowley, tilting his head to the side for Dean. “Let’s get this party started.”

Four injections in, it became obvious that the cure was hitting Crowley harder than before. Whether it was because he’d already been almost cured years ago or because this time he accepted it willingly, he’d already hit the emotional stage. There was nothing to do between injections besides talk and think, which invariably led him back to the fact that they’d chosen to cure him rather than toss him to the mob. It was enough to make him a tad weepy.

When everyone started getting a little shivery, Bela agreed that the door could stay shut as long as it was opened for each injection. Sam and Cas had quietly excused themselves early on, with Sam suggesting that they’d be of more use helping to keep their customers calm and fed. (They’d quickly offered to share around anything from the display case free of charge while Cas brewed a pot of soothing camomile tea.)

Dean pulled up a chair and sat just outside the Devil's Trap with the syringe and a cup of coffee — since there was no alcohol to be found in the café — and handed over napkins so Crowley could dry his eyes. “So…I was thinking. Y’know those piecaken things? I was thinking maybe we could make little ones. Like, I’d make tarts and then you could bake ‘em into cupcakes.”

As he was trying not to use the sleeve of his chef’s coat, Crowley accepted the napkins gratefully. “I suppose that could work.”

Eyebrows raised incredulously, Dean managed to look almost offended. “What, no witty remarks about tarts or inserting things into other things?”

“If you’re asking if I want you to fill my cakehole, the answer is always yes.” Crowley mustered a sad excuse for a smirk, but it quickly fell away. “Dean, I was a piss-poor human the first time and I was a monster for literal centuries. I don’t know what sort of person I’ll be when the dust settles, but the odds aren’t exactly on the side of decent.”

Dean had been fiddling with the syringe, but Crowley’s words stilled his fingers. “What? No. Fuck that. Look, I know you’ve done some pretty shitty stuff—”

“Not helping, love.”

“—but that’s not who you are anymore. You’ve been practically human since you came back. Honestly, the old Crowley wouldn’t’ve even cared if he was being an asshole.”

There was no way Dean could know. It’d been so long since Crowley was human, he had no gauge, no measure of what was decent and what was terrible. Hell, he’d given the bloody devil a perfect vessel for the purposes of bending the bastard to his will and hadn’t seen the issue with it for months after.

“No, you don’t understand. I can’t—”

“You need reassurance?” Dean leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees. “Fine. If you ever start looking like the old Crowley, me and Cas will be more than happy to tell you off for it. Guaranteed, sleeping on the couch till you get right again.”

“Sleeping on the— As a punishment?” Crowley searched Dean’s face for any hint of amusement. “Because you’ll have no issue with my living in the Bunker once I’m mortal.”

Dean took a sip of his coffee before answering. “Dude, if you were paying any kind of attention, you’d know you’ve been more than welcome to stay in the Bunker for months now. But yeah, there’s already a room cleared out for you.”

Fully prepared to deal with Dean’s refusal, his easy acceptance struck Crowley momentarily speechless. Living in the Bunker was everything he’d ever wanted and more, not to mention he’d be under constant supervision as he adjusted to humanity, so that was his worries dealt with. It was so much more than he’d dared hope for. The mere thought of it made those traitorous tears prick at his eyes once more.

“Ah shit, I was supposed to be cheering you up.” The hourly alarm on Dean’s phone beeped just then. “At least this is the last one, right?”

While Dean drew blood from his arm, Crowley dabbed at his eyes and avoided looking at their customers in the corner with Cas and Sam. He was again reminded how much he would have preferred to have been in a more private place for the entire ordeal.

Though he wasn’t looking, he couldn’t help but hear the distinctive shuffling footsteps accompanied by the _plonk_ of a cane which could only belong to one person in the room. “Excuse me, Mister Crowley,” said Mr. Jankowski. “Sorry to disturb you — I know this ‘s been a rough day all ‘round — but those napkins must feel awful on your poor face.”

Drawing a deep, steadying breath, Crowley attempted to regain his composure. “Let’s not stand on formalities. Please, call me Crowley.”

“Alright, Crowley, I suppose you should call me Nate, then.”

He had to look. Standing just outside the chalk lines, leaning on his cane, Mr. Jankowski smiled and held out a white cotton handkerchief in his slightly trembling hand. “I thought maybe you’d rather have something softer. It was wrapped ‘round salt rounds, so I’d imagine it’ll smell like ‘em, but it’s gotta be nicer on your face than those sandpaper-rough napkins.”

There were so many sorts of smiles in the world, but Mr. Jankowski smiled with his whole weathered face. Every wrinkle was an expression he’d worn so often it had engraved itself on his face, and while some of them were worry and confusion, most of them looked like happiness. It looked like a life well-lived.

It was all Crowley could do to hold back the blasted tears again. Mr. Jankowski wasn’t able to lean very far in, so Crowley reached over to bridge the distance and take the handkerchief. He couldn’t feel any hint of salt in the cloth, but when he dabbed at the corners of his eyes, the combined smells of salt, gunpowder, and engine grease were oddly comforting.

When he looked over again, Mr. Jankowski smiled a little more warmly. “You go on and keep that. I’ve got loads more at home an’ seems to me you’re probably gonna need it again.”

Something warm bloomed in Crowley’s chest, rising up to cut off the words he hadn’t quite decided on. He’d fought for a place with the Winchesters ever since meeting them, but somehow over the course of less than a year, he’d acquired a village full of people who knew he was a demon and weren’t bothered by it.

Before he could find his voice to thank Mr. Jankowski (Nate?), Dean said it for him. “Crowley isn’t so great with the whole ‘feelings’ thing — still kinda new — but I think what he’s trying to say is thanks.”

It was enough to let Crowley muster a smile and add, “Yes, that.”

Mr. Jankowski waved it off. “It’s such a small thing, really, but you’re welcome.”

Once Mr. Jankowski was back with the others, Dean opened the door for the hourly “watch Crowley get jabbed with a needle” show. Unlike every hour before it, Bela and her crowd of goons weren’t waiting there, only a black-eyed idiot in a meatsuit Crowley vaguely recognized as belonging to a spineless toad.

The lackey’s eyes widened. “Oh, uh, hi. Um…you shall not pass!”

That’s when Crowley heard what had previously been ignored as background noise, and despite the day’s events, he grinned. “Dean, how about you gimme a quick poke so this isn’t for nothing. I think we’ve got company.”

 

 

🍩 🍵 🍰

 

 

"You say you're good with a blade?" Sam asked one of book club members, low enough that Cas was fairly confident that even the demons just outside the door couldn't hear him.

"Ten years of jiu jitsu and I was an All-State twirler back in high school," Cynthia nodded, accepting the angel blade Sam offered and flipping it expertly around in her hand before making a forceful and fluid stabbing motion. "Mash 'em together and… Yeah, I think I got this."

If Cas' studies of humanity via the Winchesters were anything to go by, Cynthia's expression was more of determination than actual confidence. But beggars could not be choosers in this situation, and while Cas was loathe to let harm come to his patrons, he would rather they be armed.

Sam nodded knowledgeably at Cynthia's revelation but Cas had no idea what she was talking about. "Twirler?"

Another one of the book club members, Zoe, smirked and slung an arm over Cynthia's shoulder; her dark eyes gleamed under her bright pink hair. "What she means is one of those girls in a sparkly bathing suit-looking thing, tossing a baton around in front of the marching band."

Cynthia brightened up considerably under her girlfriend's teasing. "Didn't see _you_ complaining about my sparkly bathing suit."

Zoe cackled while Sam and Cas exchanged amused looks.

"Alright," Sam asked, looking around the group, "anyone know how to fire a gun?"

Bela may have agreed to hold off any aggression so long as Crowley upheld his end of the deal, but both Cas and Sam knew that demonkind on the whole was woefully stupid and impatient. If the humans inside the café were only going to be pacified with tea, baked goods, and phone calls home for so long before they began to eye Sam and Cas' weapons, Cas could only imagine the restlessness of the demons outside. In fact, the huge windows revealed just that: black-eyed sonsofbitches—as Dean would have said, and Cas was more than inclined to agree—milling around, waiting for their moment.

From the corner of his eye, Cas caught Dean's just as Dean finished drawing another round of blood. The ritual would still require the final exorcism, but Crowley was looking rather tearful at the moment—which had become a regular feature of the past few hours—and Dean was doing his best to give him a little dignity by letting his eyes roam anywhere but on Crowley. Cas offered him a small smile, silently asking if he wanted company or help, but Dean gave the barest of head-shakes.

Mr. Jankowski, however, had no such qualms about interrupting and went over to Crowley to offer him a handkerchief. It was a small gesture, but seeing Crowley so moved by it made Cas soften for a moment. While he and Crowley were certainly closer in many ways than they ever had been before, Dean was still their center, their glue, so to speak. But this purification process, seeing Crowley so open and vulnerable, had made Cas realize just how much he welcomed Crowley's presence for his own sake, not just to make Dean happy or for Crowley’s contributions behind bedroom doors. (Though, those certainly were not to be discounted.)

Dean set down the syringe on a table before going to let Bela in, pausing on his way just long enough for Cas to rest a hand on his back. He was distracted from this fleeting comfort, however, by Sam.

"Uh, Cas?" Sam jerked his head over towards the corner of the café, where several patrons were gathered, looking nervously out the window. His eyes flicked over Cas’ shoulder, and Cas recognized the silent message to Dean: _Just keep going and act natural._

Crossing the room in a few steps, Cas surreptitiously surveyed the demons outside. The usual minions were still moving about, but—

"Where's Bela?"

Sam never got a chance to respond as the answer became apparent: Bela was surrounded by her erstwhile followers and managed to eviscerate one with an angel blade before backing up to the door. A lone demon stood there and Cas was fairly sure it had made some ridiculous announcement and then proceeded to prove itself wholly useless as it met Bela's blade and crumpled to the ground.

"Here we go," Sam muttered to Cas, and they moved to position themselves between the fragile salt lines and their customers.

Cas readied his blade as across the room, Dean seemed to be injecting Crowley with the latest dose. Crowley stood up immediately, wincing as the blood coursed through him, and Dean offered a steadying hand until it was brushed off.

"Back off, you useless idiots!" Bela cried, brandishing her angel blade with one hand and pushing back a few oncomers with a burst of demon mojo from her other outstretched palm. The door to the café might have been open, but the warding acted much the same against her; she had nowhere else to go.

"Dean, let her in," Crowley announced, his voice stentorian over the ruckus. The demons paused and even Bela looked surprised. His back was straight, but Cas could see how much effort it was costing him.

"What are you nuts?" Dean protested. "We break the warding—"

"Yes, yes, they can all come in." Crowley looked around, dark eyes calculating. "But if Bela dies…"

It would be another power vacuum, especially now that Crowley was mostly human. Dean looked to Cas and Sam, and they nodded in agreement.

"Devil you know…" Dean breathed out. "You guys ready?"

Caroline hefted up a bag of salt. Heather and Mrs. Jankowski picked up the carafes of holy water, while other members of the book club scurried to fill and bless more jugs and mugs or continued carving Devil's Traps into bullets. Cynthia's angel blade gleamed and Mr. Jankowski twisted and pulled at his cane, revealing a thin sword.

"I don't think that sword will work on demons," Sam informed him with a note of apology in his voice.

"Mayhap," he agreed, then he nodded in the direction of his wife, "but I can't sit idle."

Castiel peered at the weapon. "Is that...made from an angel blade?"

"Dunno if that's what you boys call it, but I found one of what you have lyin' 'round…"

While Cas was intrigued by the story, it would have to wait for another day, assuming they all made it out of this one alive. In concert with Dean, Cas slashed through the delicate warding built into the walls while Sam kicked away the salt line and yanked Bela inside. Crowley stepped forward and, aiming one of Dean's spare guns, rapidly shot the first handful of demons to surge forth after Bela. Caroline rushed forward to redo the salt, but two demons broke the plate glass window near her and tackled her to the floor.

"Caroline!" shouted a woman's voice—Ingrid, Cas thought—and suddenly a teapot crashed like a grenade on the demons, who writhed away from the holy water. Caroline scrambled up, bruised and cut with shards of glass, but mostly unharmed. Cas pushed her back to the others and Cynthia came up beside him.

The blur of action over the next few minutes, which seemed endless, was an all too-familiar dance to Cas, whose blade sliced at demons in a deadly whirl. Demons burnt out orange as he smote them with his palm. To his left, Dean was hurled against the pastry case, cracking the glass. His blade skittered across the floor as a demon rushed him.

"Dean!" Cas called, tossing his own blade and moving to pick up Dean's. He barely saw Dean catch the weapon and stab the demon while he swept up the other blade and took on his own share of the enemies.

At the back of the café, the Jankowskis and Cynthia were fighting off all who came their way, encircling a knot of people—which seemed to include Crowley now. Apparently the effects of the blood were hitting him at last. Bela stood slightly apart from the customers but from the pile of demon bodies at her feet, her own efforts in the fight were considerable. Of course, Cas suspected it was merely her way of securing her interests.

Demons burst forth from the kitchen, though they were met by Sam with Ruby's knife and Zoe and Heather's holy water bombs. Cas grappled with another demon, earning a slash across his abdomen before he was able to thrust his blade through the demon's heart. Suddenly a shout cut through the furor.

"ENOUGH!"


	8. Chapter 8

The demons—and everyone else—froze at the authority in Sam's voice. Dean, however, took the opportunity to stab the black-eyed bitch who had him pinned and had been trying to slit his throat. Her grip slackened ever so slightly and it was enough for Dean to push her off and drive Cas' angel blade through her heart. He stood, his head woozy from the level of exertion after donating to their impromptu blood drive. Getting thrown into the pastry case probably hadn't helped.

He swayed for a dangerous moment but then there was a hand under his elbow. Cas' face looked like it'd gone a couple rounds with Muhammad Ali, but he seemed like he was doing a hell of a lot better with the vertical concept than Dean was, so he leaned into Cas' support with a grateful smile.

"You ok, man?" he asked, just above a whisper. Cas nodded.

Movement just outside the café caught Dean's eye. Was that… _Jody_ by the door with a blade to the throat of a demon? He blinked in surprise as he picked out Claire's blond curls behind the shoulders of a demon who looked like he just got stuck with something very sharp in a very unpleasant place. He grinned at the sight before spotting Donna with a gun—probably loaded with Devil's Trap bullets, if he knew Donna—pointed at point blank range at some other demon's head. By her, Rowena had two demons locked in coils of purple light. In the doorway to the kitchen, Mary stood by Jack, both of them looking like they'd been in a tussle, and Dean was pretty sure he could make out Bobby's ball cap behind them.

_How did they—_

Sam must have called in the cavalry.

Inside the café, there were bodies strewn across the café floor—though none were patrons, from what Dean could tell. It was like a photo, a still life, everyone frozen in the middle of the fight, staring at Sam in the center of the room. Sam towered above them all, breathing heavily.

"There will be _no new King of Hell_!" Sam declared. "Not today. Not ever."

From the back corner of the café, Bela's eyes narrowed. Dean glanced past Bela to where Crowley sat, still holding a bloody angel blade and obviously exhausted from the aborted transformation, but staring at Sam curiously.

Looking around the café and seeming to make eye contact with every demon there, Sam continued, "And if anybody wants the job, they can come through me."

Maybe Dean had lost more blood or hit his head harder than he thought because there was no way that Sammy had just told off a fuck-ton of demons—including _Bela_ —and announced that he personally would be accepting applications to what has got to be one of the shittiest jobs ever...and the demons _listened to him_.

_Jesus, if we'd known that'd work..._

The demons dropped their weapons, eyeing each other uneasily. Before anyone could react, they all started to smoke out...all except one who was crumpled on the ground, nursing a gunshot wound. Trapped by a bullet, Dean would guess.

Well, all except two, actually: Bela was still standing not far from Crowley with a smug smirk on her face. Stepping forward, she said, "King, no—perhaps I was a little too eager with choosing my meatsuit. Queen, however…"

"Get the fuck out, Bela," Dean snarled. "You got what you came for."

"Did I, though?" She glanced at Crowley. "Wouldn't want to leave without verifying my prize, now would I?"

Sam nodded. "Fine, but they get to go." He gestured around to the patrons.

"An acceptable compromise," Bela allowed.

Without a word, Jody and Mary and everyone else who'd ridden in started moving towards the civvies. Dean only really had time to notice Jack escorting Mrs. Jankowski out, her hand looped through his elbow, but he trusted all of them to make sure his customers were safe and taken care of. Which was good because…

"Dean, you should sit." Cas' grip tightened on his elbow.

"I'm fine, Cas. Quit naggin'." But he didn't object too hard when Cas practically pushed him into one of the few chairs that wasn't tipped over or broken. The lightheadedness seemed a hell of a lot more manageable once he was sitting, but he wasn't gonna admit it and he was just gonna ignore Cas rolling his eyes at him.

Bela seemed unconcerned with the general commotion of the café. Taking a vial from her pocket, she splashed holy water on Crowley's face.

He didn't flinch, just wiped the water from his eyes. "Satisfied?"

"Almost." Spinning, she thrust out her hand in the direction of the demon bleeding out onto Dean's floors (sonofa _bitch_ this was going to be a pain in the ass to clean up), like she was trying to Darth Vader the dude over to her.

Except nothing happened.

"What—" she scowled. She tried again. Nada.

There was an amused cough from behind her. "Well, this is interesting."

"Crowley, somethin' you wanna share with the class?" To be honest, Dean didn't really give a shit about what was interesting here, not unless it got Bela and the fuckwad cringing on his floor out of his café quicker.

"You knew this would happen," Bela snarled.

"Hadn't thought about it until now," Crowley answered, almost cheerfully. "The business of Hell is no longer my business."

Crowley's eyes got some of his usual spark in them, and despite the situation, Dean felt more than a little relieved to see it—the last few hours had been rough and he'd been worried if Crowley'd be able to bounce back, especially considering the guy was lingering in human-demon limbo (though clearly human enough not to be bothered by the holy water).

"Ok, and...?" Dean prompted.

"Right of Conquest."

Bela bared her teeth. "I _bested_ you! The throne is _mine_."

"Technically, you didn't," Cas chimed in. Clearly he had some idea where this was going, based on the amused look he was giving Crowley. "He abdicated and became human by choice."

"And declared me his successor!"

"Ah, but I actually abdicated long before you rounded up your rather sad little posse here. The throne has been empty for quite awhile now."

Dean and Sam exchanged looks and Dean was glad to see that Sam seemed just as in the dark as he was. Didn't happen often, especially not with what sounded like legal bullshit to him.

"Alright, quit beatin' around the bush," Dean said. "Brass tacks it: you stepped down, position's open...How come Bela ain't on a victory march outta here?"

"Hell's power structure is relatively simple," Crowley explained. He stood up with some effort, but still commanded the room like he _was_ the king. "The throne may pass through Right of Conquest, or if the rightful heir appoints a new ruler. Ramiel appointed me, the mantle of power became mine. But if there is a vacuum, the power reverts to whoever is next in line."

Sam frowned. "But all the Princes and Knights are dead."

"Don't tell me there are more of those ass hats out there." Dean was pretty sure they'd met their quota on big league demons, thank you very much.

"No, there aren't," Cas confirmed.

"But," Crowley said, walking to Sam and standing right in front of him, "there is still one player left on the board. Lucifer's prophesied general, the one who was supposed to marshal all of demonkind together to prepare for Lucifer's rise and the beginning of the Apocalypse: Sam Winchester, the Boy King."

"No." Sam's shoulders fell and Dean felt his stomach plummet. "We _stopped_ that. I'm not— _No._ "

Crowley shrugged. "That's the way it is, Moose. Can't say I'm thrilled by the prospect myself, but here we are. Besides, you did essentially just declare yourself regent a moment ago."

Bela's eyes flashed and in an instant her blade was whipping towards Sam.

" _NO!_ " Dean shouted, on his feet instantly, ignoring the black spots in his vision. Fucking blood loss…

He needn't have worried. Sam blocked her attack easily, pushing her away and towards Cas, who pinned her against the wall. Cas held his palm over her forehead and her eyes widened, preparing for the searing grace that would smite her.

"Wait," Sam said, turning to Crowley. "Devil you know, right? That's what we said?"

Crowley nodded. Sam flicked his eyes to Dean, who gave him a nod as well. Cas, however, stayed exactly where he was, his jaw clenched and his eyes unflinching.

"I don't want this. She can have it."

"A wise choice, Moose."

Sam ran a hand through his hair. "So, how do we do this?”

 

 

🍪 ☕ 🥧

 

 

All eyes stared expectantly at Crowley, asking for an answer he was only too glad to deliver. “A large portion of what makes magic work is in the intent, and near as I can tell, the same holds true for transfer of power. Focus your attention inward, Moose. Find that absolute certainty that you felt just now when you declared the throne off-limits and channel that through your words. Let there be no doubt about your intent.”

Sam squared his shoulders and stood a little taller than was really fair. Closing his eyes, he said, “Bela Talbot, the throne of Hell is yours, but on one condition.” He locked eyes with Bela and glared. “Keep the demons in line. No going around killing people for fun. Crossroads deals are fair, but if any of my people spot a pair of black eyes topside, their ass is grass and then you’ll find out _exactly_ why I was supposed to rule Hell.”

Bela, restrained by Cas, nodded as best she could, then seemed to realize the power required verbal confirmation. “I accept your terms.”

Anyone expecting dramatic visual effects was bound to be disappointed, but Crowley, intimately familiar with the sensation, knew better. Watching Bela’s face, he knew the slight trembling intake of breath for what it was, and mentally congratulated her for her composure.

“It’s done,” Crowley said, nodding to Sam. “Hell has accepted her claim.”

Adjusting his grip on the demon-killing knife, Sam took another step toward Bela. “Alright, we’ve upheld our end of the deal. You gonna leave peacefully?”

She rolled her eyes up at Cas’ hand still on her forehead. “Do I have a choice?”

“Not if you want to make it out of here in one piece,” Cas replied.

Bela sighed and waved a hand in the general direction of the demon attempting to dig the bullet out of their midsection. “Mind if I take out the trash first?”

“You mean stop that dickbag from bleeding all over my hardwood floor?” Steadying himself against a table, Dean stood up. “He’s all yours. Just don’t make a bigger mess if you’re not gonna clean it up.”

“What? No!” The demon in question tried to dig out the demon trapped bullet like an animal in a trap trying to gnaw off its own leg. Crowley remembered the sensation, but couldn’t muster sympathy for someone who’d tried to kill everyone he cared about.

Cautiously tucking her blade away inside her meatsuit’s jacket, Bela then held up empty hands and stared directly at Cas. “If you please, I’d appreciate if you’d take your hands off me so I can be on my way.”

Cas took his hand away, but readied Dean’s angel blade. Bela saw it and laughed. “Really? I got what I came for. I’d be a bloody fool to jeopardize everything for a shot at _maybe_ hurting one of you.”

She walked to the door but didn’t leave, instead focusing on the increasingly frantic demon still pinned in place. With a snap of her fingers, she reduced demon and meatsuit to a cloud of smoke and ash — something Crowley had only been capable of at the height of his power — then strode out the door.

“I said not to leave a goddamn mess,” Dean called after her. “Fuckin’ demons.”

Without really thinking about it, Crowley spread his hands wide. “I’m standing right here, you know.”

It didn’t sink in until Dean chuckled and replied, “Yeah, let’s fix that. Unless…you don’t wanna finish it now. ‘Cause Bela’s gone, so if you really wanna stay a demon, it’s up to you.”

It was no choice at all. Absently noting the oddly intact Devil’s Trap, the chalk lines miraculously unscuffed, Crowley stepped back into the circle without a hint of resistance and took his seat. He glanced around the room and was gratified to see approval from all present. “Let’s do this.”

Everything up to that point was something he’d done before, made easier the second time because he wasn’t resisting it. The moment Dean sliced his hand, however, he was in new territory. Taking what he hoped was his last unnecessary deep breath, Crowley met Dean’s eyes and put all his trust in the man who’d saved him from Hell.

Dean nodded once, splashed holy water in Crowley’s face, and intoned, “ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus...hanc animam redintegro...lustra!_ ” He covered Crowley’s nose and mouth with his bleeding hand and finished, “ _Lustra!_ ”

It felt like fire coursing through him. Light blazed in Crowley’s eyes, burning like the sun, like a volcano erupting from his face because it had nowhere else to go. It was an instant that felt like an eternity, but when he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Dean’s concerned face.

“Talk to me, Crowley. Did it work? Are you alive? Goddammit, if you’re dead again—”

“I’m—” He wanted to continue, but the thought of Dean actually worrying about him, after all he’d done, brought tears to his eyes. Cas hovering behind Dean certainly didn’t help matters. Crowley’s throat closed up as the tears spilled down his cheeks and soaked into his beard.

Dean plucked Mr. Jankowski’s handkerchief from where it stuck out of the sleeve pocket on Crowley’s chef’s coat and held it out. “Looks like he was right. You did need it again.”

Crowley was dabbing at his eyes when he felt a light touch at his temple, followed by a gentle wave of warmth which rippled through his whole body, cleansing him of all the minor aches which had hit him all at once. Though he already knew, he still turned to see Castiel then do the same for Dean.

“I’m sure you had a skilled witch to tend to your wounds over the years,” said Cas, “but they seem to have prioritized form over function. I haven’t been able to do anything about it until now.”

Over by the front windows, Sam cleared his throat. “Guys, sorry to interrupt, but uh…”

The door swung open and Rowena — followed by the rest of the cavalry — strode into the café, already talking. “Is everybody alright? We saw the light and came as soon as we could.”

 

 

🍩 🍵 🍰

 

 

Leaving Rowena to fuss over Crowley, telling himself that it was simply to ensure that everyone else was safe and not because he didn't mildly enjoy the look of panic on Crowley's face, Cas turned to their friends returning to the café. Jack was of course the first to get to him, and he soon found himself the recipient of a tight hug.

"Cas! We came as soon as we could! I'm glad you're ok."

Cas smiled. "Thank you, Jack. All of you, thank you."

"I'm fine, by the way," Dean grumbled as he stood up.

Jack stepped back, abashed. "Oh, I—"

Jody rolled her eyes and patted Jack on the shoulder. "He doesn't mean it. He's just being a grump. Ignore him." But Dean's scowl didn't stop Jody from giving him a hug, and the frown quickly dissolved.

"Wait, Dean has other settings besides grumpy old man?" Claire teased, stepping over a broken chair and nearly slipping on a patch of erstwhile holy water. Kaia caught her under the elbow and Claire flushed. "Thanks."

From behind him, Cas heard a low whistle.

"Whooee, gonna be a hassle to clean this up," a woman who must be Donna Hanscum said before wrapping Dean and then Sam in hugs herself. "And you must be the famous Cas?"

Cas could only imagine the things people had said about him. "Uh, yes?" And then he found himself being pulled down into her arms.

"I'm a hugger. You'll get used to it," she grinned.

He smiled in return. "I think I can accept those terms." As an angel, physical contact had never been more than a means to an end, and only in recent years had he learned to enjoy touch for its own sake and for the closeness to others it allowed. He couldn't imagine going back.

Mary and Bobby joined them a second later, Mary embracing each of her sons, while Bobby gave them solemn nods of greeting.

"Everyone home safe?" Sam asked. If Cas had not been witness to Sam's horror at learning that he still had sway in Hell, he might have missed how carefully constructed the calm in Sam's voice was.

"Yep, all taken care of," Bobby replied, readjusting his grey woolen cap. "Went off without a hitch, all things considered. Folk seem like they got good heads on their shoulders 'round here."

Mary nodded. "Few minor cuts and such, but we got them cleaned up. One of them said her brother is the local doctor and he'd be going around." She smiled with a mix of amusement and disbelief. "I guess this wasn't too much a surprise to any of them."

"Apparently not," Cas agreed.

"You have no idea…" Dean laughed. "Fucking _book club_ …" But the words were entirely without malice, just full of fond wonder.

Blue lights flashed outside and sirens sounded around the corner. Donna and Jody eyed each other.

"Guess that's our cue," Donna said. "We givin' the boys in blue the usual spiel to cover it up or The Talk?"

"I think they're probably already way ahead of The Talk," Jody mused. "Makes our job easier. C'mon, Sheriff."

Donna grinned. "After _you_ , Sheriff."

The two women moved off while Sam took up the conversational duties, thanking them for coming so quickly when he'd called them and inviting them back to the bunker to rest up before they went home. Cas, however, focused on Dean, who had stepped away a bit and was looking around the café morosely.

"Sonofabitch…" Dean bent, picking up the remnants of the small chalkboard specials sign that had stood on the counter. He ran a thumb over the section of the logo which just said DEA, the rest scattered in several more pieces on the floor.

"We can fix this, Dean."

"We almost got a buncha innocent people killed, Cas." He threw the sign back to the floor where it skittered across the hardwood. "No matter where we go, past's gonna follow us and—"

"No." Cas caught his wrist with one hand. Dean's eyes jerked up to Cas, who held the gaze steadily.

Dean's hackles rose. "If you're gonna pin this on Crowley—"

"Dean." He cupped Dean's jaw with his other hand, brushing his thumb over the cheekbone. "This was no more his fault than it was yours. And I can hardly be the one to cast the first stone about the past."

"Cas…" His shoulders fell. "What's the point, man? We gave it a good run, but...how can I— _we_ risk this shit happening again? 'Cause you know this ain't going to be the end of it."

"Perhaps not." Cas looked around the café. A waterlogged copy of _Jus in Bello_ peaked out from the wreckage of the pastry display case. "But I think tonight has shown us that even though our patrons may be innocent, they're far from ignorant. They knew who we were, what we've done, and they still came here."

Dean let out a breath. "You don't think they're gonna run us outta town, huh?"

"I very much doubt it." Cas offered a small smile. "Besides, where else are they going to get the best pies in Kansas?"

"And your teas and lattes," Dean said, finally letting the corners of his mouth turn up. "They fuckin' love that shit. And the pastries—they sell like hotcakes...which, I guess they kind of are in a sense..." His eyes went wide with realization and he looked guiltily at Cas, nodding his head in the direction of where Crowley still sat, trying to wave off his mother. "We should, ah, probably save him."

Cas nodded. "I'll get Sam. I'm sure he can distract her."

Shuddering, Dean said, "Ignoring that mental image, yeah…" He sighed and glanced around the place, blowing out a long breath. "Alright," he nodded, more to himself, as if mentally tallying up everything he had to do.

Without warning, he pulled Cas into a hug, which Cas sank into.

"Thanks, Cas. You know, for everything," he mumbled into his shoulder.

"Of course."

 

Rowena was hardly fooled by the obvious ploy to give Crowley some breathing room, but she didn't seem all that bothered by being pulled away by Sam.

"I assure you, I'm fine, Mother," Crowley huffed. "Go have fun with your Brawny Man."

"And don't think I won't," Rowena teased, her arm already wrapped around Sam's waist. "But—"

"C'mon," Sam said, leaning down to speak almost privately to her. "Dean and Cas have got it."

Rowena frowned, but drew herself up to her full height—which wasn't much, especially compared to Sam—and nodded. "Oh, alright."

Cas wondered if Crowley might prefer Rowena's return once Dean started his own hovering.

"She got you something to eat, right? You gotta be starving, now—"

"Yes, yes. She cut the crusts off the sandwich and everything," Crowley grumbled, though Cas was reasonably sure Rowena had done no such thing—they didn't even have sandwich fixings at the café. But there was a plate with crumbs on it on the table by Crowley's elbow. "Now can we please get out of here?"

Cas offered his hand, which Crowley looked at with only a moment's consideration before taking it and pulling himself to his feet. Dean put his hand protectively on Crowley's back.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Crowley began. "If I had known—"

"Nope. Ain't your fault. We're getting you in bed—and me in bed 'cause I could sleep for a week—and then we're gonna put it all back together. Tomorrow." Dean met Cas' eyes over Crowley's head for just a moment.

Crowley looked between them, his expression inscrutable. But he nodded and his posture softened. "I'd like that."

"Come," Cas said. "Let's go home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to Andrew Dabb for Sam's little speech from 14x01.
> 
> \---
> 
> If you've enjoyed our story and want more, be sure to subscribe to the series if you're not already subscribed to us. I'm not sure when she plans to post it, but Grey's written a little timestamp and I have plans for another. Thank you for all the comments, you have no idea what they mean to us. - Thayer

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERY INSPIRATION POST: [you've been warned](https://writing-prompt-s.tumblr.com/post/175218890230/its-the-dreaded-coffee-shop-au-except)
> 
>  
> 
> If you like our stuff, we have more!  
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> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos appreciated!!


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